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THE 



MISCELLANEOUS WORKS 



OF THE LATE 



Richard Penn Smith 



COLLECTED BY HIS SOJf, 



HORACE W. SMITH. 




PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED BY H.W. SMITH 

No. 69 SOUTH SEVENTH STREET. 
1856. 






King & Baird, Printers, 
No. 9 Sansom Street, Philadelphia. 



T© T}iIE a^iOE 



^mastb parents, 
RICHARD PENN SMITH., 

AND 

ELEANOR M. SMITH, 

THIS BOOK 

is afTectionately dedicated by their only 
remaining child, 

HORACE W. SMITH. 





CONTENTS, 



Introduction 7 

The Mariner's Tale 16 

Changes 33 

The Fisherman's Song 37 

Bornouese War Song 39 

The Plague of Tripoli 41 

From Amalthaeus 47 

The Cottage Lovers 48 

Kiskauko 51 

Hope 54 

Prologue to Oralloosa 55 

Farewell Address 58 

A Health to My Brother t31 

Answer to a " Health to My Brother." 63 

Prologue to the '* Red Rover." 65 

Lines to a Favourite Actress 69 

Song of Mortality 71 

Lesbia's Sparrow 74 

The Old Man's Lament 76 

Fishing Song 78 

Ode 80 

Latin Poem 83 

Seasons of Life v ^^ 

Fragment 85 

Apologue 88 

To 89 

Lines 91 

To a Lady 93 

Song 94 

Lines written in an Album 95 

Song 98 

To 99 

The Coquette 101 

Stanzas to Ellen 102 



6 CONTENTS. 

From Anficreon.,.. 104 

The Penitent 105 

Lines 107 

Epigram 108 

Epitaph on an aged couple 109 

To 110 

Song 112 

Stanzas 113 

France 115 

Stanzas 117 

Epigrams 119 

«♦ 120 

«« 121 

122 

Song for the Fourth of July 123 

Lines sent to a Lady, &c 125 

The Labourer to his wife 126 

Forrest 127 

To Rebecca.... 128 

Lines 129 

" 131 

Fragment 133 

To the Lost One 135 

The Village School 141 

Salek 147 

Nettles on the Grave 151 

The Dream of Mehemet 158 

Self-importance 168 

Bator the Dervise 177 

Azib and his Friends 180 

My Uncle Nicholas 196 

Dydimus Dumps 210 

Mr. Aspenleaf 234 

Lady of Ruthvan 263 

The Visionary , 270 

The Widow Indeed 288 

The Recluse of Black Log Mountain 304 



INTEODUCTIOK 



Ix publisliing the following pages I have given 
them to the printer in the exact condition in which 
the author left them — I have not altered nor added 
a line, except by way of note. And not wishing to 
publish any thing which the reader might think 
was flattery, I have taken the liberty of using a 
biographical sketch — written some years ago by my 
father's friend, Morton McMichael, Esq. : — 

EiCHARD Penn Smith was born at the south-east 
corner of Fifth and Chesnut, on the 13th day of 
March, 1779 ; he received his early education at 
Mount Airy, and at Joseph Neef 's Grammar School, 
at the Falls of Schuylkill. He entered the law 
office of the late William Eawle, Esq., and upon 
arriving at age was admitted as a member of the 
Bar. From his father— the late William Moore 
Smith, a gentleman of the old school, of highly 
polished education and manners, and a poet of 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

considerable reputation, in his day — lie inherited a 
taste for letters, and was early distinguished for 
the extent and variety of his acquirements. 
His first appearance as an author, was in the 
columns of the Union^ where he published a 
series of papers, moral and literary, under the 
title of the "Plagiary." About the close of the 
year 1822, he purchased the newspaper establish- 
ment, then well known throughout this country as 
the Aurora^ from the late Mr. Duane, and assumed 
the arduous and responsible duties of an editor. 
At this dray-horse work he continued about five 
years, when, finding it both weary and unprofitable 
he abandoned it, and resumed his profession. A 
good classical scholar, and a tolerable linguist, with 
a decided bent for the pursuits of literature, his 
mind was well stored with the classics, both ancient 
and modern ; and amid the vexations and drudgery 
of a daily newspaper, he wooed the Muses with con- 
siderable success. Perhaps, to the discipline which 
editorship necessarily imposes, and the promptness 
which it requires, may in part be attributed the 
great facility he possesses in composition. While 
engaged in the duties of a profession, generally con- 
sidered uncongenial to the successful prosecution of 



INTRODUCTION. 9 

literary adventure, lie produced a number and 
variety of pieces, both in prose and verse, wbicb 
stowed considerable versatility of talent. His 
favorite study is the drama, and with this depart- 
ment of literature he is thoroughly familiar. With 
the dramatists of all nations he has an extensive 
acquaintance ; and in the dramatic history of 
England and France, he is profoundly versed. 
Perhaps, there are few who have studied the old 
English masters in this art with more devoted 
attention, and with a keener enjoyment of their 
beauties. But it is not alone in the keen enjoyment 
and appreciation of others that he deserves atten- 
tion. He has given ample evidence that he pos- 
sesses no ordinary power for original effort in this 
most difficult department of literature. We do not 
know how many plays he has produced, but the 
following, all from his pen, have been performed at 
different periods, and in most instances with com- 
plete success : — Quite Correct — Eighth of January — 
The Disowned, or the Prodigals — The Deformed, or 
Woman's Trial— A Wife at a Yenture— The Senti- 
nels — William Penn — The Triumph at Plattsburg 
— Caius Marius — The Water Witch — Is She a 



10 INTRODUCTIOiN'. 

Brigand ? — My Uncle's "Wedding — Tlie Daughter 
— The Actress of Padua. 

Of late years, Mr. Smith has avowedly written 
for money, and he requires something more sub- 
stantial than the blandishments of the Muses, to 
tempt him to put pen to paper. If Green Eoom 
anecdotes can be depended on, he is blessed with a 
much thicker skin than usually falls to the lot of 
the geniis irritabile vatum. It is said that on one 
occasion he happened to enter the theatre during 
the first run of one of his pieces, just as the curtain 
was falling, and met with an old school-fellow, who 
had that day arrived in Philadelphia, after an 
absence of several years. The first salutation was 
scarcely over, when the curtain fell, and the author's 
friend innocently remarked, "Well, this is really 
the most insufferable trash that I have witnessed 
for some time." " True," replied S., " but as they 
give me a benefit to-morrow night as the author, I 
hope to have the pleasure of seeing you here again." 
At another time, a friend met him in the lobby, as 
ihQ green curtain fell, like a funeral pall, on one of 
his progeny, and, unconscious of its paternity, asked 
the author, with a sneer, what the piece was all 
about. " Keally," was the grave answer, "it is now 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

some years since I wrote that piece, and tliough I 
paid the utmost attention to the performance, I 
confess I am as much in the dark as you are." 

As an evidence of his facility in composition, it 
may be mentioned that several of his pieces have 
been written and performed at a week's notice. 
The entire last act of William Penn was written on 
the afternoon of the day previous to its performance, 
yet this hasty production ran ten successive nights, 
drawing full houses, and has since been several 
times revived. His '' Deformed" and " Disowned," 
— two dramas which may be compared favorably 
with any similar productions of this country — were 
both performed with success in London, an honor 
which, we believe, no other American dramatist has 
yet received. The tragedy of " Caius Marius," 
written for Edwin Forrest, and brought out by him 
at the Arch Street Theatre, possesses sterling merit. 
The plot is well imagined — the principal characters 
are well developed and sustained — the language is 
uniformly vigorous, and the sentiments are poetical 
and just. For more than three years Mr. S. has had 
in preparation another tragedy, commenced at the 
instance of his friend Forrest, and in view of his 
peculiar capabilities which, though for a long time 



12 INTEODUCTION. 

nearly finished^ lias never, we believe, been com- 
pleted* 

In 1831 Mr. S. pnblisbed a work in two volumes, 
called The Forsaken^ tbe scene of which is laid in 
Philadelphia and the adjoining country, during our 
revolutionary struggle. Five years ago, American 
novels — with the exception of Cooper's — were not 
received with the same favor as now ; but a large 
edition of the Forsaken was even then disposed of, 
and it obtained from all quarters strong commenda- 
tion. In our Judgment, it is a work highly credit- 
able to the author. The story is interesting, and in 
its progress, fiction is blended with historical truth 
with considerable skill and force. 

During the year 1836 Mr. S. published two 
volumes, entitled the " Actress of Padua, and other 
Tales," which have been eminently successful. We 
understand they were the means of increasing his 
literary profits, and we know they have extended 
his literary reputation. As a writer of short tales, 
he is natural and unaffected in manner ; correct in 
description; concise in expression; and happy in 
the selection of incidents. He possesses, moreover 

* The Venetian — in Five Acts, since finished. 



INTRODUCTION". 13 

a quiet humour, and an occasional sarcasm, wliicli 
make his productions both, pleasant and pungent. 

Mr. S. has written much for the periodical litera- 
ture of the day, both political and literary, and his 
poetical pieces, if collected, would make a large 
volume ; but these appear to have been scattered 
abroad, without any purpose of reclamation. His 
name is attached to a limited number, which are 
distinguished by a healthy tone of thought, neatness 
of expression, and harmony of versification ; but as, 
generally, they were produced for some particular 
occasion, they have — most of them at least — passed 
into oblivion with the occasions that called them 
into existence. 

Mr. S. has been active as a politician, and as all 
politicians, no matter how pure the patriotism they 
possess, look to the " loaves and fishes," he was not 
unwilling to accept the situation of Clerk to the 
Incorporated District of the Northern Liberties. In 
this station he remained four years, and as might 
have been expected, discharged his duties with 
ability and dispatch, until he was himself discharged 
with corresponding dispatch, when his political 
opponents came once more into power. His mind 
is now engrossed with his professional pursuits, and 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

as lie has always looked upon literature as being 
subsidary to graver concerns, it is problematical 
wlietber lie will hereafter produce any laboured 
effort, though we know that highly advantageous 
offers have been made to induce him again to exer- 
cise his talents in the region of fiction. 

In 1822 Mr. Smith married a daughter of Samuel 
Blodget, Esq. She died in 1833, leaving but one 
son, the collector of these works. 

In 1836, Mr. Smith again married—and retired 
to the family seat at the Falls of Schuylkill, near 
Philadelphia, at which place he died, August 11th, 
1854. His remains were interred at Laurel Hill, in 
the same grave with those of his grand-father, the 
Eev. Dr. William Smith — his father, and children. 



POEMS 



THE MAEINEE'S TALE, 



Scene. A Flower Garden of a Mariner's Asylum. 

Characters. An aged Sailor and a Visitor. 

Sailor. All things must move in circles as earth 
doth. 
The orbs that make space gorgeous move in circles ; 
E'en space itself is one eternal circle ; 
For were it not, its end would sure be reached. 
All drag a chain still moving round and round 
Until we join the two ends of the chain: 
Thus man completes his circle. No escape then. 

Stranger. You spoke, sir, of a voyage. 

Sailor. Oh ! pardon me : 

I had forgot — those circles set me wild. 

Where left I off? 'Tis strange, the thread is 

broken. 

Stranger. In the South Sea. 
2 



18 THE mariner' S TA LE. 

Sailor. 0, true ! — 'mong fruitful isle 
The jocund waters leaped when morn arose, 
And fringed each billow's snow-white pinnacle 
With golden tissue. Waves that wildly roared 
Through night, like fiends contending for their 

prey, 
Now smiled serenely as a lawn in spring 
Spangled with herbage 'mid the wasting snow ; 
And as our gallant vessel glided on 
The joyful waters, like some amorous dame, 
Kissed the bright prow in very wantonness, 
Ees^ardless of the wound so rudelv made 
In the too pliant bosom. 

Stranger. You liken well 

The waters to a woman ; beau.tiful 
In the bright sunshine of prosperity ! 
But when the tempest rages, sea-tossed man 
Oft finds a shoal there, where his bark may strand, 
Expecting a safe haven. 

Sailor. You are bitter : 

But truth is not always sweet. All on board 
Assembled on the deck to hail the sun 
Weaving with gold Grod's heaving world of green ; 
While lowly murmuring the gladsome waves 
Sang matins to their master. Voices full 



THE mariner's TALE. 19 

As deep -toned organ's swell, and others slirill 
As notes of linnets, mingled with the songs 
The glad sea made in praising Him who made it. 

Stranger. Let the great sea and all that therein is ; 
The earth — its frnit — and all that live thereby — 
And all that live hereafter, praise his name. 

Sailor, Amid our happy concourse there was seen 
A father and his little family. 
And the fair partner of his joys and griefs. 
The mother of his children. While they gazed 
Upon the wide expanse, their bosoms heaved 
With admiration for His mighty works 
Who rules the fearful sea. They thanked and 
trusted. 

Stranger. All thank and trust, who know the Grod 
they trust in. 

Sailor. Among them was a fair-haired rosy boy 
Who hugged his father's knee ; his little hands 
Clasped in devotion to the unseen God, 
In ignorance adoring ; for his spirit. 
Unstained of earth, was redolent of heaven, 
And instinct with the praises he had learnt 
From angel-lips in his celestial birth-place. 



20 



Stranger. Childliood's inheritance, whicli manhood 
squanders. 
God gives ns all, while we return but little, 

Sailor. As the sun rose he sung a little hymn. 
The words were these. I think his father made it. 
In the morning of existence, 

Earth smiles, as Eden smiled on Adam ; 
With God and angels for companions, 
Man — little lower than the angels — 
Keceives the truth as it was given 
Once — face to face, and fresh from heaven. 

In the noontide of existence, 

With bathed brow and stalwart limb, 

Man, singing, struggles for subsistence 
For those in sin begot by him, 
Kejoices in those human frailties 
Which makes him imitate his God. 

In the sunset of existence, 

Alone, in thy Gethsemane, 
Quaff the cup bravely and repine not — 

For man, thy God is there with thee. 

Meekly obey the mandate given. 

It purifies thy soul for heaven. 



THE mariner's TALE. 21 

Stranger. A strange thoiiglit that — childhood is 
Adam's Eden, 
Where man beholds his Maker face to face ; ' 
The close of life is his Gethsemane, 
Where he must quaff the chalice to the dregs, 
Without a prayer to take it from his lips. 
I've heard that hymn before. 

Sailor. Why call it strange ? 

The cup is sweetened though it smack of bitter, 
And the most bitter drops become the sweetest. 
Gethsemane was nearer heaven with him 
Who bathed with tears and blood the sacred soil, 
Than fresh blown Paradise appears to have been 
With angel visitants. Perchance they are 
The self-same garden, typed by Spring and Autumn, 
Seed-time and harvest ! If that thought be true, 
With bathed forelock and with steadfast soul 
Gather the harvest of Gethsemane, 
More precious than the flowers that smiled in Eden. 
The task is thine — first husbandman, then reaper. 

Stranger. Talk further of the boy who sung the 
hymn. 

Sailor. That spotless child, the rudest of the crew 
Loved, for his presence made us better men. 



22 T H E M A R I N E II S T A L E. 

Strange^'. True, all men who love cliildren still 
grow better; 
And the best men are children to the last, 
At least in thought and feeling. 

Sailor. There's the circle — 
Extremes must meet, and we are hedged within 

them. 
But to pursue our voyage — and the boy. 
Day past away, and as the night came on 
The full-orbed moon rolled in a cloudless sky, 
And the high waters now lay hushed in sleep. 
As gentle as the slumber of a child 
Wearied with gambols through the live-long day. 
The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by, 
Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite ; 
The sea a living mirror, in whose depths 
The richly studded concave was reflected. 
Making a perfect globe ; and as the ship 
Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be 
Some spirit on errand supernatural, 
So dark and silently she glided on 
The babbling waves were scarcely audible. 

Stranger. A pleasant sail which landsmen only 
dream of — 
But never enjoy. 



THE mariner's TALE. 23 

Sailor. All joy hath bitterness. 
Stretched on the deck the sailor-boy reposed, 
And lived in dreams his infant years again. 
The seamen, 'mid the shronds aloft reclining. 
Told o'er their tales of wreck and lingering death, 
And in the drowsy interval was heard 
The rugged cadence of the helmsman's song. 
" A pleasant sail I" But pleasure has strange wings, 
She comes a zephyr and departs a whirlwind. 

Stranger, Kisses the flower to blooming, then de- 
stroys. 

Sailor, Sudden the helmsman's drowsy song was 
hushed. 
A fearful cry arose — " The ship's on fire !" 
The seamen from aloft sent back the cry ; 
The sailor-boy shook oQ* his happy dream. 
And woke to horror. All was wild dismay ; 
Half sleeping — half awake, the crew came forth ; 
Grim death, enveloped in his robes of flame, 
Marched on and laughed. There was no human 

power 
To put aside his footstep. On he moved 
In awful majesty ; whate'er he touched, 
True to its origin, returned to dust, 
And Nature's master-work, man's godlike frame, 



24 THE mariner's tale. 

Became as worthless as tlie spars and sails, 
Each made its pile of ashes — nothing more. 

Stranger. Ashes to ashes all, and dust to dust. 
The self-same mandate both on earth and sea. 

Sailor. The flames attained dominion. Tyrant- 
like, 
They ruled and raged. Upon the shrouds they 

seized, 
Kissing destruction — laughing as they kissed ; 
While the broad glare they spread upon the deep 
Changed the sea's nature. Water soon became 
A lake of living fire. " A pleasant sail !" 

Stranger. You weep. Go on. 

Sailor. that I then had perished ! 
I seized the boy and leaped into the waves. 
Upon a fallen spar we safely rode 
Until the ship went down. " A pleasant sail !" 
Her knell one shriek of mortal agony. 
We had no heart to weep for their sad fate — 
No heart to pray for one less terrible. 
I gathered fragments from the floating wreck, 
And made a raft, where two immortal souls 
Struggled with time to check eternity 
With frail appliance. For three days we suffered ; 



THE mariner's TALE. 25 

And tlien a passing ship preserved our lives 
For greater snfiering. 

Stranger. Tlie boy — his fate ? 

Sailor. His parents dead — the lad became my 
charge. 
I then was married to a worthy woman — 
God's kindest gift. We had an only child — 
My wife brought up the children as if twins, 
And at a proper age he sailed with me. 
He grew to manhood — noble — cheerful — kind 
As those who love the artless lips of children ; 
A very babe was he in his affections — 
A very demon in his bitter passions. 
The eagle and the dove oft make their nest — 
The tiger and the ermin find a lair 
In the same bosom. 

Stranger. What became of him ? 

Sailor. My wife grew sick. He loved her as his 
mother ; 
He loved my daughter too. I sailed, and left him 
To till my little ground and smooth their pathway. 
After three years I came to port again. 
Crossing my fields, which now poured forth their 
increase, 



20 THE mariner's tale. 

I saw a man resting upon his plough, 
Singing right lustily. 

Stranger. What did he sing ? 

Sailor. In the noontide of existence, 
With swarthy brow and rugged limb, 

Man bravely struggles for subsistence 
For those in sin begot by him ; 

Rejoices in all frailties — sorrows, 

They draw him nearer to his God. 

Stranger. The hymn of early childhood still 
remembered. 

Sailor. A bending in the chain to form the circle. 
He led me to my home — and such a home ! 
It seemed as if the fairies had been there 
Making their May-day — wife and daughter happy. 
Then, from an arbor overgrown with flowers. 
He placed a prattling child upon my knee. 
And called him by my name. He laughed out- 
right — 
My daughter blushed. They now were man and 

wife. 
I danced — then blubbered like a very child. 
Tears are at times a truer sign of joy 
Than smiles and laughter. 

Stranger. 'Twas a boy you said ? 



THE mariner's TALE. 27 

Sailor. A boy — liis bud of Paradise, be called him. 
Such flowers, too, often yield most bitter fruit 
In man's Getbsemane. 

Stranger. Thank God ! not always. 

Sailor. We dwelt together for a few brief months. 
He then proposed to try the sea again, 
To place the beings whom Ave fondly loved 
Beyond the cold calamities of earth. 
Three years we sailed — we prospered, and returned 
With means to make those happy whom we loved. 
On wearied pinions, like the dove of peace 
When land was found, he flew to seek the ark 
Where our best feelings day and night reposed, 
While struggling with the ocean. God ! God ! 
ISTo ark was there — no resting-place for him ! 
Even Ararat was covered with the deluge. 

Stranger. I understand you not. 

Sailor. His wife was false. 

Stranger. Impossible ! 

Sailor. But true. You tremble, sir. 
Her father curst the memory of his child ; 
Her mother withered, and soon died heart-broken. 
You seem disturbed. 

Stranger. 'Tis past. What did your son ? 



28 THE mariner's TALE. 

Sailor. He slew the slimy reptile tliat crawled 
over him ; 
Put his hard heel upon her glossy front, 
Trampled her out in cold blood. 

Stranger. God of heaven ! 

Sailor. And he did right. 

Stranger. Your daughter ! 

Sailor. He did right. 
She who betrays the honor of her husband, 
Eegardless of her parents, self and children, 
Should cease to live, though all unfit to die. 
Better to rot in earth, than crawl through life, 
Offending all things with her foul pollution. 
I love my God : knowledge increases love. 
I ask forgiveness of him, as Christ prayed. 
I am his child, and yet I curse my child. 
Her sin hath made the best of prayers from my lips 
An invocation of a lasting curse 
On her old father's head — a mockery ! 
Forgive as I forgive — a lie to God ! 
Her sin hath robbed me of my prayer of child- 
hood — 
The prayer I gathered from my mother's lips — ' 
The prayer that opens the celestial portals — 
The prayer He taught when He appeared as mortal. 



THE mariner's TALE. 29 

Stranger. His destiny. 

Sailor. He fled and took his child ; 
But not as Cain fled with the brand upon him. 
'T was sacrifice to virtue, and no murder. 
When I arrived my Eden was Golgotha ; 
I found a corpse — my wife bereft of reason. 
I buried one, attended to the other 
For years until she died. The fruits of lust ! 
I went to sea again in search of strife — 
The quiet of the land near drove me mad. 
The ship I sailed in scoured the southern sea, 
To quell the pirates. We o'ertook a rover. 
A deadly strife ensued — 'twas life or death ; 
Their chief and I by chance met sword to sword ; 
I knew him not, and strange, he knew not me. 

! grief outstrips the rapid wing of time 
In marring youthful beauty ! See this scar ! 
His cutlass gave it — but I mastered him. 
Their chief subdued, the rover soon surrendered. 

Stranger. His destiny? 

Sailor. The yard-arm, and a halter. 

1 saw him pass away. 

Stranger. And said he nothing ? 



30 THE mariner's TALE. . 

Sailor. Nauglit to tlie crowd — but I remember 

this: 
In the sunset of existence, 

Alone in my Gethsemane, 
I quaff the cup without repining, 
For God, I feel thou'rt still with me. 
Meekly obey the mandate given 
That purifies the soul for heaven. 
Stranger. His cradle-hymn still chanted to the 

grave. 
Sailor. The circle, sir — the end and the begin- 
ning — 
The two ends of the chain are linked together. 
Stranger. You said he had a boy. 
Sailor. I said not so. 
There was a boy whom I have searched for since ; 
But, like the shadows of all earthly hope. 
He hath eluded me. 

Stranger. I am that boy. 

Sailor. Thou ! — thou that boy ! The wheel is 

still in motion ! 
Stranger. I stood beside the gallows when he died. 
Sailor. His bird of Paradise ! A cherub then ! 
I've seen you often sleeping among roses. 
And he ; a guardian angel, smiling o'er you. 



THE mariner's TALE. 31 

You liave not slept on roses often since, 
But wept beneath your father's gallows-tree. 
And my blind deeds have shaped your destiny. 
I brought your father to a shameful death, 
Which your young eyes beheld. And I've made 

known 
A thing, perhaps unknown to you before — 
Your mother's infamy. Alas ! poor boy ! 
What an inheritance have we bequeathed you ! 

Stranger. You did your duty, sir. 
^ Sailor. Ay, there's the question. 
Can duty lead man's footsteps to God's throne, 
Making life death, the glad earth Tartarus ? 
I snatched a fellow-being, winged for heaven. 
With God's own impress on him still unblurred, 
Who, but for me, would have flown chanting there 
Anthems to angels. But with rufiian hands 
I checked his flight, and stayed him for perdition. 
Would that the ocean had received the child ! 
Would that I had let him perish in the flames ! 
Would that his wound had marked me for the 

grave. 
Ere I had saved him for an after life 
Of sin and sorrow, though impelled by — duty. 



32 T H E M A R 

Stranger. Why do you pluck those gorgeous 
poppy-flowers, 
And cast them in the walk ? 

Sailor. They now are harmless ; 
Suffered to ripen, they are poisonous. 
Let them die blooming, while they are innoxious. 
Would he had perished as these simple flowers, 
Ere his bloom faded, yielding deadly seed. 

Stranger. I've sought you, sir, to solace your old 
age. 

Sailor. God bless my child ! We're in the circle 
still. 
Good begets evil often — evil good. 
The grandsire and the grandson close the chain — 
Alone — forlorn ! Yet both have done their duty. 
The world goes round and round, 'till hidden things 
Stalk forth as spectres from the rotten grave. 
All, all is plain ! These circles drive me mad ! 



CHANGES. 33 



cha:^ges 



Here's pansies for thoughts. 

Ophelu. 

All tilings on earth are subject to a change. 

Where firm-based mountains once upreared their 

heads, 

Snow-capped amidst the clouds, now valleys smile. 

And shepherds pipe to flocks in flowery meads. 

Eivers forsake their channels and become 

As rippling brooks, that with a tiny voice 

Babble of former greatness. Mighty seas, 

Where navies battled and the strong whale dwelt, 

Now wash the axle of the globe we tread, 

Ne'er to be seen by mortal eye again. 

Nations, that in their pride and magnitude 

Threatened to burst the confines of this globe, 

Have passed away, and scarcely left behind 

A record of their names. The giant Eome 

Has dwindled to a pigmy. Macedon 

Is, as it were, a village among nations ; 
3 



o4 CHANGES. 

Of Cartilage scarce a single stone remains 

To designate her grave ; and Egypt now, 

Though once the sun that hurled back ravs to 

Heaven, 
Is in Egyptian darkness. — 

All things change ! 
Say, where is now the race of Pericles, 
The Ptolemies and Caesars ? Look among 
The refuse of mankind, you'll find them there, 
Unmindful of their name, and what they are 
To us, the men we magnify will be 
To after aores. — 



o 



Naught is lasting here ! 
Wealth taketh wings and fleeth as a bird, 
While penury usurps her empty temple. 
Friendship gives place to hate, and love to scorn ; 
Pride is o'ertoppled by humility ; 
Courage forsakes the strong man's heart to fear. 
And avarice — that yellow devotee 
Who would far rather starve for lack of bread 
Than take one glory from the golden god 
His own hands fashioned — plays the prodigal. 
Our rooted passions have not nerve to stay. 



CHANGES. 35 

E'en Time, who changes all things in his turn, 
Wearied, must drop his scythe and crush his glass, 
And in his second childhood sink to sleep. 
And rise regenerate — Eternity. 

And what is man for man to magnify, 
Though made but little lower than the angels. 
And crowned with glory and with loving kindness ! 
The dust we tread on was perchance a flower ; 
The ox consumed it, and that shrub became 
His flesh and blood ; then man consumed the ox. 
And made the creature human, of that flesh 
That rises in God's image on that day, 
When spectral myriads of forgotten nations 
Stalk from the earth and deep to meet their doom, 
And in celestial armor feel a dread 
That human weakness knew not. — We are told 
All things were made for his use ; he consumes 
Fish, flesh and fowl, and various fruits of earth 
Combine to form and mingle in his frame. 
Making themselves immortal by the change, ' 
And subject to immortal punishment. 
Better remain the fruit, the fish, the fowl 
Than live as human, and to rise immortal 
As some must rise ! — 



36 CHANGES. 

! strange metemsychosis ! 
Lo ! man returns to motlier earth again, 
And from his dust new slirubs and beasts are fed, 
Wlio in like manner are by man consumed, 
Throngli countless generations, making thus 
Even the grave prolific, till earth's surface,* 
By transmutation has at last become 
The human family and not its grave ; 
Flesh of our flesh and bone of human bone, 
That, Saturn-like, devours her own creation 
To feed an after progeny, and fatten 
On the stark limbs and heart's blood of her children. 
There's naught on earth wherein we find no 

change — 
Save empty pockets ! • 



THE fisherman's SONG. 87 



THE FISHERMAN'S SONG. 



When the morning sun is breaking 

In a pure and cloudless skj, 
And the sleeping world is waking 

With a burst of melody ; 
Then we leave our humble dwelling, 

Put our little bark to sea, 
And though angry waves be swelling, 

Still we sing, merrily, 
Merrily, O merrily. 

When the storm is madly roaring, 

And death walks upon the wave, 
Then we think of friends deploring 

Lest we find a watery grave ! 
Think then of our lowly dwelling, 

While the winds pipe drearily, 
Like wild dirges o'er us swelling, 

Still we sing 0, merrily. 
Merrily, Merrily. 



38 THE fisherman's song. 

But our toils and dangers over, 

Then the faggots brightly burn ; 
Soon the festive board they cover, 

And to welcome our return. 
See the good wife blandly smiling 

With the child on either knee, 
And the bowl our cares beguiling. 

Then we sing, O merrily, 
Merrily, merrily. 



BOURNOUESEWAR SONG. 89 



BOENOUESE WAE SONG 



Thou God of our prophet! whose strength we all 

own, 
Whose smile is all sunshine, but tempest his frown ; 
Look forth on the fight, make our spears like thy 

flame, 
To scathe where they strike, and to strike in thy 

name. 

Make the battle to us like the gay wedding feast. 
And the neigh of our steeds like thy bolt in the east. 
To the ears of the Kerdies : let us the fight wage 
With the strength of the elephant — buffaloe's rage. 

Make us rush upon danger with death in full view, 

For glory is sweeter than honey when new ; 

And the faithful who fight for their prophet and 

creed, 
Shall never expire, though in battle they bleed. 



40 BOURN OUESE WAR SONG. 

And now for Mandara ! the battle of spears, 
The thunder of strife and the blood-stream of tears ! 
Wherever we strike, may wild terror prevail. 
And the might of our strength make the Kerdies 
bewail. 

Our spears now shine forth like the red lightning 

fire. 
To shed the foul blood of the foes who conspire 
To scoff at our prophet, his sheik and his laws — 
The all-seeing eye that looks down on our cause. 

Stronger than rocks, than the lion more fierce, 
Our forest of spears shall the enemy pierce. 
For who can the rage of the Bornouese restrain ? 
The flame of his fixed eye what foeman sustain ? 

Till prostrate on earth, they our mercy implore. 
Acknowledge our prophet, and vow to adore. 
Spear them, nor cease till the sun sees their bones, 
And hyaenas feast in the midst of their groans. 

The timbrels and zemtoos now bid us prepare, 
The yerma is floating too, proudly in air ; 
Then onward, believers, then onward ! away ! 
The sword of the prophet must conquer to-day. 



THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 41 



THE PLAGUE OF TKIPOLI 



'Tis midnight, and the Ml orb'd moon, 

A globe of fire, seems motionless ; 
Yon dark clond will not pass it soon, 
But hangs in token of distress. 
For not a breath of air can stir 
To move the tender gossamer. 

Deserted is each busy street ; 

The gorgeous halls dismantled now ; 
Each object that the eye doth meet 

Is tott'ring 'neath disease and woe. 
The palaces and lofty towers. 

Feel conscious that their pride is gone ; 
The maiden's green and rosy bowers, 

Are withering unseen, unknown. 

Or now are sought by her alone 
Who there had passed her blissful hours, 



42 THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 

With him whom most on earth she. loved, 
That she may bless her life's decay, 
And calmly breathe her sonl away. 

Where all her earthly bliss she proved. 

But ah ! that pale one tottering there ! 

Thy fate is not in bowers of roses ! 
Hark, to her vain and dying prayer, 

Whilst on the pavement she reposes ; 
" A little water. Alia, give. 
And then my trembling sonl receive ; 
One drop to cool my burning breast ; 

T' assuage my dying agony ; 
One drop, one drop would give me rest ; 

I knew not half the pain to die ! 
I left my couch to cool the flame 
That parches all my feeble frame, 

But not one grateful breeze returns, 

And e'en the flinty pavement burns ! — 
My child, my child, why art thou here ? 

Hence to our home of wildest woe ; 
Leave me, or thou my fate must share ; — 

'Tis death to kiss thy mother now ; 

The big drops standing on my brow 



THE PLAGUE OP TRIPOLI. 43 

Soon to the grave will press me ; 

My feeble pulse is ebbing low ; 
Bless thee, child, bless thee ! 
Leave me, my child, to die alone ; 

Leave me, it is my latest prayer ; 
Touch not my corse when I am gone, 

Or thou thy mother's fate must share." 
Hush'd is the sigh ! the plaintive moan, 
No struggle now, the spirit's flown. 

Around her neck the infant clings. 

Deeming his tender mother sleeps ; 
" Wake, mother, wake," he fondly sings, 

Then closer to her bosom creeps. 
He seeks the lips that oft carest 

With tenderest love her infant joy, 
And little dreams the lips that blest 

Him o'er and o'er, will now destroy. 

" Wake, mother, wake," he fondly cries, 

Then softly steals in sport away ; 
He kisses now her rayless eyes ; 

Now pats her cheek in infant play — 

The livid cheek of gelid clay. 
" Wake, mother, wake," or I will leave thee, 

Fast sleeping here, 



44 THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 

But that I know 'twould sadly grieve thee, 

When I'm not near. 
Forgive me, mother, do not weep, 

And have I then disturb'd thy rest ? — 
Sleep on, dear mother, calmly sleep, 

And I will fan thy breast." 
Beside the spotted corse he kneels 

And waves his hand to stir the air ; 
Now from her lips a kiss he steals, 

Then glides away with care, 

Lest he her endless sleep should break, 

And smiles to see she does not wake. 

The grey morn glimmers in the east. 
And still he fans the clay cold breast ; 
But he has watched so long her waking 
He dreads that sleep will know no breaking. 
Since e'en the startling cry he hears, 
Disturb her not ; excites no fears. 

" Bring forth your dead, the pitman comes, 
To furnish the houseless with endless homes. 
When the tenant is dust and blown away, 
And the hands and the tools .that build, decay. 

This still must last 

In spite of the blast, 



THE PLAGUE OP TRIPOLI. 45 

Or the tooth of Time that all corrodes, 
Or the shock that crumbles mortal abode." 

He passes the street where the corse is lying, 
Which he heaves in the cart 'mid the dead and 

the dying ; 
His course resumes towards the spot, 
Where the lord and the pauper together must 

rot; 
The proud, the meek, the great, the small, 
The Christian, Jew, the Pagan and all. 
And that little child crawls after the cart, 
With fainting limbs and with sobbing heart. 

While still arise, 'mid the pitman's cries 
His plaintive wail, unmark'd by the other, 

" My mother, oh ! my mother." 

" Bring forth your dead," the cry resumes, 
And sounds through the streets like a voice from 

the tombs, 
" Heed not the fondest ties of the heart ; 
The bridegroom from the bride must part ; 
The mother her infant child must yield. 
And tottering age his staff and shield. 
The miser, his gold and jewels now ; 
A spot of death is on his brow. 



46 THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 

But silence your anguisli and cease to complain 
For those wlio are severed, shall soon meet again, 
The plague poison's now every breath of the air, 
And the grave shall be wide enough, and to 
spare." 

Faint on the pavement the babe is lying ; 
The pitman hears him feebly crying ; 

Without checking his horse 

In his measured course, 
He hurls the poor thing 'mid the dead and the 

dying, 
And his feeble voice is drown'd, 
In the wild discordant sound. 
Of rattling wheels and the horse's tread, 
And the fearful cry, " bring forth your dead." 

He's now at the grave where the wicked and just, 
In the wildest confusion must mingle their dust ; 

But each atom is known, 

By the Omniscient One, 
In whom now repose both their fear and their 
trust. 

The pitman covers the mortal clay 

And to-morrow himself may be as they. 



FROM AMALTH^US. 47 



FEOM AMALTH^US. 

♦ 



There were three distinguislied Latin poets of 
Italy of tliis name, whose compositions were printed 
ai Amsterdam in 1685. The following epigram 
was occasioned by the afl&iction of two children of 
remarkable beanty, though each had lost an eye. 

Lumine Aeon dextro, capta est Leonilla sinistro ; 

Et poterat forma vincere uterque deos. 
Parve pner, lumen quod habes concede sorori, 

Sic tu csecus amor, sic erit ilia Yenus. 

TRANSLATION. 

Of his right eye young Aeon was bereft ; 

His sister Leonilla lost the left ; 

Still each in form can rival with the gods. 

And, though both Cyclops, beat them by all odds. 

Spare her, my boy, your blinker, be not stupid, 

She then will be a Yenus, you a Cupid. 



48 THE COTTAGE LOVERS. 



THE COTTAGE LOVERS 



The mist of tlie morn is still gray on tlie mountain ; 
The heather bell blooms on the brink of the 

fountain ; 
Soft murmurs the stream from the mossy rock 

gushing, 
But wildly and loud through the dark ravine 

rushing. 

The heath-cock is springing elate from his nest ; 
The pale morn is sinking in calmness to rest ; 
The first streak of light is seen over the ocean ; 
The chorister's songs put the dull air in motion. 

The horn of the huntsman sounds far o'er the hill ; 
The voice of the fleet hound is frequent and shrill ; 
While panting the chased stag appears at the lake ; 
He swims the dark stream and then bounds through 
the brake. 



THE COTTACxE LOVERS. 49^^ 

How sweet is the woodbine o'er yon lattice creep- 
ing, 

Wliicli blushingly steals where the maiden is 

sleeping, 
How softly the breeze sounds that kisses the billow ; 
But softer by far is the sigh on yon pillow I 

The dash of the light oar is heard on the lake ; 
The soft voice of love sings, " Awake, oh awake, 
The first streak of morning is gray on the hill ; 
The voice of the barn-cock is frequent and shrill. 

" Then come, dearest come, where thy soul may 

be free. 
As the pure breeze that waft's o'er the marginless 

sea; 
We'll sport on life's stream as we gently pass o'er it, 
And feel not the breeze as we're gliding before it." 

The light form of one at the lattice is seen. 
And ruby lips glow through the foliage of green, 
Like a bud of the vine the fresh breezes perfuming, 
Ere the breath of the morning has kissed it to 
blooming. 



50 THE COTTAGE LOVERS. 

" Oh come, dearest, come, to the cot of tlij lover. 
Where souls may be free as the wings of the plover, 
And hearts be as pure as the vestal maid's shrine, 
And the day-star of true love shall never decline." 

The maiden now stands on the brink of the stream, 
A;id looks upon life as a fairy-like dream ; 
For she hies to the spot where her soul may be blest, 
"With a passion as mild as the dove in its nest. 

On the stern of the skiff she is seated in haste ; 
Her lover beside her, with arm round her waist ; 
He presses her lips as they float from the shore, 
And they mingle their songs with the dash of the 
oar. 

With spirits as wild as the fawn at the fountain. 
They glide o'er the lake and then stroll up the 

mountain, 
Where the day-star of true love in beauty is 

shining, 
And burns still more brightly as life is declining. 



KISKAUKO. 51 



KISKAUKO.^ 



He wrong'd me, and when I forget 
A kindness render'd, insult given, 
May my last sun in darkness set, 

And lie who rules the white man's heaven ! 
Blot out my name, until I know. 
Fully to pay both friend and foe. 

The tide of time had cooled my blood ; 
My hairs became both few and gray ; 
And cheerful as the babbling flood 
I hoped life's stream might pass away 
But serpent-like he crossed my path, 
And hissed to madness gray-hair'd wrath. 

* The subject of the foregoing verses was a respectable 
Indian Chief, who, for some private and long-endured wrong, 
wreaked his vengeance in the manner stated, upon one of his 
tribe. This occurred twenty years ago, near Detroit. The 
murderer was arrested for the crime, convicted, and executed. 



52 KISKAUKO. 

lie fancied that the old cliief' s ire, 

Could be extinguish'd by bis breath ; 
He saw pale ashes dim the fire, 

And little thought hell burnt beneath. 
In strife for life shall youth control? 
No ! — strength's not sinew, but the soul. 

We met, 'twas on a mountain's brow. 

That beetled o'er a turbid flood ; 
" Time once was yours," I cried, " but now 
We tread a narrow path of blood." 
He laugh'd, for in a deadly strife. 
Age hath poor chance with youth for life. 

His throat my fingers clasped ; 

'Twas soul to soul and eye to eye ; 
He quail'd ; for thickening breath he gasped 
AVhile ravens croaked his destiny — 

The strife was brief; I sneer 'd and smiled. 
Then hurled him from me as a child. 

" Roll on," I cried, " thou carrion slave !" 
His death song was the raven's scream ; 
From clifi* to rock he sought a grave. 
And found it in the turbid stream. 

Where now he floats with sluggish motion, 
Ghastly and bloated through Time's ocean. 



K I S K A U K O. 53 

And I before the pale face stand, 

To meet the fate his laws decree; — 
Milder the red-man's scourge and brand 
Than death on Christian cross or tree ; 
Tortur'd by laws too blind to know, 
Maneto asks but blow for blow. 

Some deeds call'd crimes by erring man, 

Are glorious in the eye of God ; 
Fiends oft seem angels in his plan, 
While angels animate a clod ; 
To prove his justice cannot be, 
Time born but of Eternity. 



54 HOPE. 



HOPE 



Hope in the young heart springeth, 
As flowers in the infant year ; 

Hope in the young heart singeth, 
As birds when the flowers appear. 

Hope in the old heart dieth, 
As wither those early flowers ; 

Hope from the old heart flieth, 
As the birds from wintry bowers. 

But spring will revive the flower ; 

And the birds return to sing ; 
And death will renew Hope's power 

In the old heart withering. 



PROLOGUE TO ORALLOOSA. 55 



PROLOGUE TO ORALLOOSA.* 



To wake the mould'ring aslies of the dead, 

And o'er forgotten ages light to ^hed, 

Until the picture in such colors glows, 

That Place approaches, —Time his power foregoes 

T' anatomise the pulses of the soul, 

From gentlest throb to throes beyond control : 

The varied passions from their germ to trace, 

Till Reason totters from her judgment place ; 

To call the latent seeds of virtue forth, 

And urge the mind to deeds of lasting worth. 

For this the Stage in ancient days arose ; 

In teaching this she triumphed o'er her foes, 

And soon became, in spite of bigot rule, 

A nation's glory, and a nation's school. 

Too long we've been accustom'd to regard 
Alone the dogmas of some foreign bard ; 

* Dr. Bird's Tragedy. 



56 PROLOGUE TO ORALLOOSA. 

Too long imagined, 'neath our shifting skies, 
" That Fancy sickens, and that Genius dies." 
Dreaming, when Freedom left old Europe's shore, 
Spread the strong wing new regions to explore, 
Her altar in the wilderness to raise, 
"Where all might bend and safely chaunt her praise, 
The gifted nine refused to join her train. 
And still amidst their ruined haunts remain. — 
Banish the thought ; extend the fostering hand, 
And wild-eye'd Genius soars at your command ; 
With " native wood-notes wild" our hills shall 

swell 
Till all confess the muses with us dwell. 

Our bard, to-night, a bold adventurer grown, 
A flio'ht has taken to the torrid zone ; — 
Calls from the grave the ruthless Spaniard's dust, 
To meet the judgment of the free and just, 
Shows, in the progress of his mournful song. 
The Indian's vengeance and the Indian's wrong : 
How bigots, with the cross, and sword in hand, 
Unpeopled and laid waste the peaceful land, 
Then scourg'd the conquered with an iron rod 
And stabb'd for gold with seeming zeal for God. 

Critics ! a word ! — we pray be not too hard 
On native actor or on native bard. 



* 
PROLOGUE TO ORAL LOOS A. 57 



A second time tli' offenders stand before you, 
Therefore for mercy humbly we implore you. 
When last arraigned the cause was ably tried, 
For Gladiatoks battled on their side : 
Took you by storm : — ere you knew what to say 
The valiant rogues had fairly won the day. 
Should Okalloosa prove a victor too, 
His triumph here repays for lost Peru. 



58 FAREWELL ADDRESS. 



FAKEWELL ADDRESS. 



We are all pilgrims here. From clime to clime 
We're doom'd to wander through the realms of 

time; 
Some with light hearts — others their journey trace, 
Like Noah's dove, without a resting place : 
No olive branch appears above the wave ; 
No sign of peace until they reach the grave. 

We are all pilgrims here. We journey on, 
Hoping the ideal meed may yet be won, 
Day after day, scene after scene flits by. 
And scarcely leaves a trace on memory ! 
Still, though the promise of the present day. 
Like morning mists, should quickly pass away. 
We trust the morrow may our hopes fulfil, 
And hug the phantom confidently still. 



* Spoken by Mrs. Sloman, at her farewell benefit at the 
Chestnut Street Theatre. 



FAREWELLADDRESS. 59 

Thrice bless'd are they, who in their progress find 

One joyous scene to captivate the mind ; 

Stamp, on the mem'ry in such bold relief 

As bids defiance to all future grief ; 

A spot of green that in the waste of years, 

Will freshly bloom, though watered by our tears. 

That boon is mine — for ne'er shall I forget 
The kind reception that I here have met. 
Time may roll on, and space may intervene, 
But nought can cloud the mem'ry of that scene. 

I came a stranger from a distant shore, 
Left kindred, friends, new regions to explore ; 
I sought the country that gave birth to one. 
Whose name still stands, and ever must — alone ! 
Where freedom moves in beauty, unconfined ; 
The exile's home ; the nation of mankind ! 
Where all the stranger's welcome did extend, 
Until the welcome made the stranger — friend. 

Land of the brave and free, though now we part, 
I bear those sacred feelings in my heart, 
That when between us rolls the expansive sea, 
" My mind untravell'd still will turn to thee ;" 



60 FAREWELLADDRESS. 

The happy hours I've past, again live o'er, 
And friends far distant, to my soul restore ; 
Still scan with rapture life's most flattering page, 
Until death's curtain falls upon the stage. 



A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER. 61 



A HEALTH TO MY BROTHEK. 



Fill tlie bowl to the brim, there's no use in com- 
plaining ; 

We'll drown the dark dream, while a care is 
remaining ; 

And though the sad tear may embitter the wine, 

Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine. 

True, others may drink in the lightness of soul. 
But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl ; 
Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine. 
And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with 
thine. 

And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother ; 
Who drinks of the one should partake of the other. 
Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain, — 
Pshaw! think of our day, and we're children again. 



62 A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER. 

'Tis folly to grieve that our life's early vision 
Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision. 
A fairy -like show, far too fragile to last ; 
As bright as the rainbow and fading as fast. 

'Tis folly to mourn that our hearts' foolish kindness, 
Eeceive in return but deceit for their blindness ; 
And vain to regret that false friends have all flown ; 
Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone. 

Then fill up the glass, there's no use in repining 
That friends quickly leave us, when fortune's 

declining — 
Let each drop a teai: in the roseate bowl ; 
A tear that's sincere, and then pledge to the soul. 



ANSWER TO *'A HEALTH." G3 



ANSWER TO "A HEALTH TO MY 
BROTHEE." 

BY WM. E. SMITH, OF WISCONSIN. 



Yes, brother, quaff the gen'rous bowl, 

Though tears have mingled with the wine ; 

Our pledge — let each congenial soul 

Respond— " Thy joys, thy griefs, are mine!" 

Our sun of youth rose brightly gleaming, 
And promised flowers in every path ; 

How soon, aroused from blissful dreaming, 
We struggled with the whirlwind's wrath ; 

Now, in the world alone, my brother, 

Two scions of one parent tree. 
Soon shall the earth, our common mother, 

Reclaim her own, and set us free! 



64 ANSWER TO ^'A HEALTH. 

Religion teaches souls immortal 
To bear submissive worldly pain ; 

For, soaring up to heaven's portal, 
The pure in bliss shall live again. 

Then let us bear our griefs awhile — 
No cause exists to shed a tear. 

When we look backward with a smile. 
And forward gaze without a fear. 



PROLOGUE TO THE '^RED ROVER." 65 



PKOLOGUE TO THE "EED ROYEE." 



Spoken by Mr. "Wemyss and Mr. S. Chapman. 
Enter the Manager, followed by the Call-Boy. 

Manager. Another author ! what is this yon say, 
Another author, with another play — 
Who vows with all the vehemence of rage, 
That I onust forthwith bring it on the stage ; 
The fellow's mad — stark mad — to brave the town, 
And vi et armis^ force his rubbish down ; 
But show him in — (exit boy ;) they shall not make 

me fear 
Tho' authors now like Banquo's race, appear 
A moment, and then vanish. 

(Enter Author.) — Sir, your most — 
A virgin author, to give up the ghost. 

Author. You're wrong, my friend, my drama ; — 

(offers MS.) 
Manager. Let me see! 

Author. We'll charm the town, and fill your 
treasury. 



66 PROLOGUE TO THE *'RED ROVER." 

Manager. A modest youth — the town — I under- 
stand ; 

But genius-like, you write a d d crarnp'd hand, 

Which I cannot decypher ; — Sir, no doubt 
You can explain what this is all about. 

Author. The title will explain — there — there, turn 
over; 
One leaf speaks volumes. 

Manager. (Reading.) — " The Red Rover." 
A cunning rogue, the critics to confound. 
Here builds his fabric on another's ground ; 
But let us hear what arguments you bring, 
By way of recommending this strange thing. 

Author. Our scenes are drawn from Cooper's 
graphic page, 
Sufficient passport, surely, to the stage. 
Sublime his taste — in beauty e'en profuse ; 
Yet yielding little to the Drama's muse. 
For these descriptions, which with nature vie, 
The painter's brush but feebly can supply ; 
Yet much depends upon the painter's art ; 
And how — the plane — and saw — perform their part. 
So critics who uphold the stagyrite. 
May close their ears, and shut their eyes to-night. 

Manager. Zounds! how is this? 



PROLOGUE TO THE ^^RED ROVER." G7 

Author. Be patient, you shall see, 
A scene to tickle the catastrophe; 
" One," as Bays say, " shall set the audience mad, 
And pit, and box, and gallery it, egad. 
With anything extant." 

Manager. (Surprised.) — You mean to say. 
With hammer, paint, and boards, you wrote ikts 
play. ^ I 

Author. Precisely so. 

Manager. And should it chance to hit. 
Of course you'll lay a claim to taste and wit. 

Author. You're right again. 

Manager. Modest, — but if it fails — 

Author. Well! damn the carpenter, the boards 
and nails. 
But that's impossible — impossible. 

Manager. Indeed! 

Author. My dukedom to a dernier, 'twill succeed. 
A showy drama from a native tale. 
In this fair city, ne'er was known to fail. 

Manager. We'll try that point. 

Author. Perhaps 'twill be the rage ; 
The " Eover" — what ! already on the stage — 
This looks like expediton, cries that heau^ 
While sauntering in the lobby, to and fro 



5 PROLOGUE TO THE ''RED ROVER. 

A wisli to please tlie town ; egad ! that's right — 
A native play — I'll take a box to-niglit. 

Manager. To please tlie town has been, I here 
declare, 
My proudest study, and my hourly care ; 
And when I prove imperfect in the part, 
The fault lies here ; (touching his head,) but comes 

not near the heart 
The wish to please, at least all must allow : 
The " RoverJ'' shall be done — so make your bow. 

Exeunt together. 



LINES TO A FAVOURITE ACTRESS. 69 



LINES TO A FAYOUEITE 
ACTEESS* 



That thou art fair and lovely the coldest heart must 

feel, 
And the arrows that thy dark eyes shoot would 

pierce a heart of steel ; 
Thy lips will match the coral, and thy teeth with 

pearls may vie. 
Thy locks are of the raven's hue, thy step is 

majesty. 

Thy every look and action is fraught with match- 
less grace, 

And those who once have seen thee, can thy image 
ne'er efi'ace ; 

But what avails, thou fair one, the arrows of thine 
eyes? 

They're quick to shoot, but cannot reach time's 
strong wings as he flies. 

* Mrs. I). P. Bowers. 



70 LINES TO A FAVOURITE ACTRESS. 

Thy check where health now revels, and the lips 

where roses grow. 
! soon will fade, in the dust be laid, and grass 

from out them grow. 
And she whose grace and beauty made the coldest 

bosom burn, 
As a brilliant ray must pass away and dust to dust 

return. 

But wdiat wise mortal can foretell the fate of his 
remains, 

A crock may from his bones be formed, and brick- 
bats of his brains ; 

And in some future age, perhaps, a potter may 
discover. 

The porcelain clay of her who fixed the heart of 
many a rover. 

And from the sj^ren of the stage may make a tea- 
pot fine. 

If that's thy fate, I trust he'll make a water-pot of 
mine, 

That I may meet my lovely friend upon a silver 
tray, • 

And still enjoy the presence of the Jordan of the 
day. 



S O N G F M R T A L I T Y. 71 



SONG OF MOETALITY. 



Overture^ full orchestra. 
Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 
Whj drag our chains so wearily! 

1st vocie — Young Debauchery. 
The hectic spot upon my cheek, 

My wasted frame, my shortened breath ; 
My voice subdued, my spirit meek 

Proclaim the near approach of death. 

2nd Voice — Truth. 
These mortal vestments, soiled and torn 

You'll lay aside as over worn ; 
And ne'er again shall you resume — 
Such gear as useless in the tomb. 

Chorus, 

Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 

Why drag your chains so wearily ! 



72 SONG OF MORTALITY. 

Srd Voice — Old Decrepitude. 
Thougli slowly moving, swiftly going ; 

(Like snow in spring dissolving fast,) 
To where no fiery snn is glowing, 

Where I shall fear no wintry blast. 

2nd Voice — Truth. 
Where all the heavy laden rest ; 

Without oppressor, or oppressed — 
Where truth and justice ever flowing. — 

Srd Voice — Old Decrepitude. 
I feel I'm going. — 



2nd Voice. 
Chorus. 



You are going. 



Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 
Why drag your chain so wearily ! 

4:th Voice — Sanctified Hypocrisy. 
Though I brought nothing in this world, 

My anxious spirit hopes to see 
When its last pinions are unfurled. 

Time's death beget eternity. 



SONG OF MORTALITY. 

2nd Voice — Truth. 
Did jou bring notliing — have yon grown 

From earth, where seed was never sown ? 
Yet hope to take — though blnrred, indeed, 

A record for your God to read ? 

Chorus. 

Sing, sing, and dance it cheerily — 

Why drag your chain so wearily ! 

^th Voice — Human Nature. 
Nay ye brought all — to man was given 

The greatest gift — The power to be — 
Enjoy, prepare a soul for heaven. 

And stand before Immensity. 

2nd Voice— Truth. 
And is this nothing ? a mere clod, 
Endued with attributes of God, 
By him approved and stamped as good ? 

All the voices. 
All nothing " says Ingratitude. 

Chorus. 

Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 

Why drag your chains so wearily ! 



L E S B I A S SPARROW. 



FROM CATULLUS. 

LESBIA'S SPARKOW 



''^ Lugite^ Oh I Veneres Cupidenesquey 

Ye Cupids droop jowx lieads and mourn, 
My Lesbia's favorite sparrow's gone, 

WMcli she did prize, 

More than her eyes. 
He was so fond and faithful too, 

Whene'er a pang touch'd Lesbia's breast, 

He'd nestle in the place distrest, 
As if he were in love with woe. 

But when a smile her face o'erspread. 
With joy he'd raise his drooping head. 

Then plume his wing. 

And chirp and sing. 
His heart brim full of song and play ! 

Then fondly bite her coral lip, 

All twittering now the nectar sip. 
And then in frolic wing away. 



LESBTAS SPARROW. <0 

Upon her finger he wonld stand, 
And eat Ms meal from her fair hand, 

His feathers sleek, 

And wipe his beak ; — 
Her laughing eyes with joy wonld glisten. 

When speaking in a playful mood 

He'd chirp as if he understood. 
And archly turned his head to listen. 

Oh, death ! curst be thy craving jaws, 
That never yield to Pity's laws, 

For kindred dear 

Or friends sincere ; 
But thou a shaft for all art steeping ; 

Even this sparrow thou hast ta'en. 

For whose sad fate I now complain. 
And Lesbia's eyes are red with weeping. 



« 

76 THE OLD man's lament. 



THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. 



Mj boyliood, my boyliood 1 lias long since passed 

away, 
And like tlie flowers of spring its hours have faded 

in decay, 
And time, with all his promises, hath yielded scarce 

a joy 
That can repay those swept away from me whilst 

yet a boy. 

The world lay fresh before me and like a summer 

bird. 
On eager wing I rose to sing where melody was 

heard. 
The heavens were calm, the air was balm, the earth 

was gemm'd with flowers ; 
And shouts of joy without alloy brought on the 

winged hours. 



THE OLD man's LAMENT. 77 

But now I mourn mj infancy, as I my babes 

deplore, 
Who like bright visions flitted b}^ and then were 

seen no more. 
But when as they I passed awa}^, O ! not a tear was 

shed, 
Although my boyhood is a thing now number'd 

with the dead. 

All radiant in their innocence my babes again shall 

live; 
But the bright boy that time destroy'd no power 

can bid revive, 
And of the beings manifold that breath'd and moved 

in me. 
An old man broken down with care is all that God 

will see. • 

My boyhood — my manhood ! have vanish'd like the 
wind, 

Or eager birds that clip the air and leave no trace 
behind, 

They lived — they died — both suicide, and are for- 
ever gone, 

Or at the judgment I appear a myriad in one. 



FISHING SONG. 



FISHING SONG.-^ 



Come, pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row, 
We all are lishermen here below. 
Some fisli on land, and some on sea. 
And some wliere fisli could never be. 
Some bob for whale and some for sprats. 
While others catch but water rats. 

No matter where our boats we row. 

We find all fishing here below. 

The statesman who protests that he 
Would die for us and liberty : 
The swain who swears ^n spite of time, 
The wealthy widow's in her prime : 
The demagogue who makes a fuss, — 
Are fishing all to gudgeon us. 

Then pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row, 

We all are fishing here below. 

* Written for the Centennial Celebration of the Fisliinj 
Company of the State in Schuylkill, May 1, 1832. 



FISHING SONG. 79 

The lawyer casts the wily net, 
The parson, too, some lines has set. 
The damsel, timid as the deer. 
The widow with the roguish leer, 
Though modest as the wife of Lot, 
Are fishing both for— you know what. 

Then pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row, 

We all are fishing here below. 

Yes, e'en heloiv extends the plan. 
Old Nick himself 's a fisherman. 
And few like him can bait a hook— 
The best, sometimes, have "fisher's luck?" 
But rain or shine, what e'er befall. 
He never gets a water haul. 

Then pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row. 

We all are fishing here below. 



80 ODE. 



ODE. 



Head at the celebration of Penn's Landing, 24th October, 1829. 

Let poets sing tlie Yictor's praise, 
And Time, until his latest days, 

Tlie eclio of tlie strain prolong ; 
Let Fame the bloody page record ; 
The human sacrifice applaud, 
" And nations deify the sword," 
Far other thoughts demand my song. 

O ! what was he of Zama's plain. 
Or they who piled the countless slain 

At Marathon — Thermopylae ! 
To him for whom our strains ascend. 
Who taught the savage knee to bend 
Who made the savage foe his friend. 

And gain'd a bloodless victory. 



ODE. 31 

The Victor's laurel \\rreatli must fade • 



The sceptre in the dust be laid ; 

The proudest works of man consume. 
Obedient to the voice of God, 
Together in their last abode, 
The beggar and the prince corrode— 

Virtue alone defies the tomb. 



Then sing his praise whose copious plan, 
Confess'd the work of God in man, 

And from The Book his precepts drew ; 

At whose approach the forest smil'd ; 

A brother found in nature's child 
His brother's breafet of fear beguil'd, 

'Till strong the bond of friendship grew. 



Let others sing the warrior's deed, 

Who lives to make a nation bleed, 

Then meteor-like from earth depart ; 

Mj humble muse I consecrate 

To him who raised— not crush'd a state : 

Whose victories were countless— great ! 

For lo ! he conquer'd ev'ry heart 
6 



ODE. 

Then never be his name forgot 
And verdant be that hallow'd spot, 

Beneath the ancient Elm tree's shade, 
Where erst the lesson was imbib'd 
Of faith unbroken — virtue tried ; 
And now upon the stone inscrib'd, 

Rever'd and classic ground has made. 



L A T I N P E M. 83 



LATIN POEM. 



VitcB Humancz Tempora. 

BY WM. ALEXANDER. 

Mane veni ; erat Yer, 

Atque risi. 
Meridiano tempore, 

Perdeambulavi, 
Erat iEstas ; 

Atque gavisus Sum. 
Consedi Yesperi ; 

Erat Autumnus; 
Atque tristiti^ affectus Sum, 
Nocte quieti me dedi ; 
Erat Hy ems; atque dormivi. 



84 SEASONSOFLIFE. 



SEASONS OF LIFE. 



A Paraphrase of Wm. Alexander'' s Latin Poem, 

I came in Morning ; it was Spring, 

And I smiled. 
At Mid-day, I, on eager wing, 
Kambled o'er the green to sing, 

As bird or cliild. 
It now was Summer, fruitful, bland, 
My Soul and Joy walked hand in hand 
O'er flowery fields in merry glee ; 
I smiled at Joy, he laughed at me. 

Shades of eve came slowly on, 
'Twas Autumn now; 

My joys had vanished one by one, 
Grief pressed my brow. 
Although my breast was sore distrest, 
Soon night approached to give me rest ; 
'Twas Winter now, all nature wept ; 
I shed no tear, but calmly slept. 



FRAGMENT. 85 



FRAGMENT.* 



Art thou a husband ? — hast thou lost 
The partner of thy joys — thy woes ; 

Didst watch her when in anguish tost, 
And share the dire conflicting throes 

Of agonized mortality, 

Till e'en to thee 'twas bliss to close 

The last fond look of her glazed eye ? 

Art thou a father ? — hath thy son, 
The prop of thy declining life, 

Fail'd ere his manly race was run. 
And left thee to a world of strife ? 



* From a poem entitled Francesca, written before the 
author was aware that Leigh Hunt had pre-occupied the 
subject. This circumstance induced him to withhold it from 
publieatiou. 



86 F R A G M E N T. 

Dost tliou pursue in cold neglect 

The remnant of tliy journey here ; 
No one thy frailties to protect, 

Or gray-hair'd sorrows to revere ? 
Is it denied thy stricken heart 

To gaze upon the face of one, 
Who seem'd thy former counter part, 

Kecalling ages long since gone ? 
To see the follies that were thine 

When life ran frolic through each vein ; 
And thus, e'en in thy life's decline 

To live the hours of youth again. 

Art thou a lover ? — is the theme 

Of all thy raptures torn from thee ? 
Hast broke the wild ecstatic dream 

And woke to actual agony ? 
The eyes where countless cup ids play'd ; 

The form as light as gossamer ; 
The neck where thy warm lips have stray'd- 

Say, does the grave-worm fatten there ? 

If so, say, hast thou never known 
The joy of gazing on the sky 

While nature sleeps, and you alone 
Seem roused to thought and misery. 



FRAGMENT. 87 

Hast never watched tlie pallid moon, 

"While rested on some sifted cloud, 
Pure as the fretful ocean's foam, 

And filthy as an angel's shroud. 
Gazed on her while her cresent pride 

Seem'd through a sea of pitch to float ; 
Then from the depth of darkness glide, 

And burst to view a fairy boat ; 
And shed her beams so strong and bright, 

That the globe seemed a crysolite ? 
'Tis heavenly at that hour to muse. 

When sleep is o'er the senses stealing, 
And e'en to agony profuse. 

Indulge the luxury of feeling. 
The features to recall of those. 

Who moulder in their last repose ; 
To chase each image that may rise 

In mockery before the eyes, 
Until you catch the happy clue 

That brings to life the wonted smile, 
And gives the cheek its roseate hue 

That moulders in decay the while ; 
Then dead to reason ; dead to pain. 
You dream an hour of bliss again. 



88 APOLOGUE, 



APOLOGUE 



A Tar, who long had roam'd the main, 
About to trust the sea again. 
Was thus addressed at his departure, 
By Hodge, who had no faith in water. 
" Your father, and his sire before him, 

And many others of your stock, sir. 
Have left their children to deplore 'em, 

Stow'd snug away in Davy's locker ; 

Then how the d 1 can it be, 

You trust again the treacherous sea ?" 

" Pray answer me," Jack Tar replied, 

" And where was it your father died ?" 

" He died," quoth Hodge, and scratch'd his head, 

" Where his own father died — in bed." 

" You're a bold man, if that's the case," 

Said Jack, " to trust to such a place : 

The scene where all your tribe were slain — 

Pray never go to bed again." 



TO 89 



TO 



When lowly in the dust thou 'rt laid, 
And all has faded, that can fade, 
I shall not shed one tear for thee. 
To stain thy Angel purity. 

Tho' thou art all on earth I own. 
The spot my spirit rests upon ; 
Till torn with earthly agonies. 
It finds a solace in the skies. 

Tho' in thy angel breast I trace 
The link that binds me to my race : 
And tho' I feel when thou art gone, 
I here shall wander — dark — alone. 

Yet not one bitter tear shall flow, 
To break thy sleep — to sooth my woe ; 
No sigh be heav'd — no tear be shed. 
No more than if thou wert not dead. 



90 TO 

For wlio could slied one tear for tliee, 
Knowing, belov'd, tliy purity? 
Say, who could force one sinful tear. 
To mourn tliy loss, to wish thee here ? 

But if one tear should chance to flow, 
Belov'd, it shall not spring from woe ; 
But calmly to thy grave be given. 
To prove, I feel that thou 'rt in Heaven ! 



MNES. 91 



LINES. 



There is an liour of sadness — 
A balm for every woe — 

A wild delusive madness, 

Tliat forms our Heaven below. 

'Tis when at eve we're roving, 
To brood upon our pain, 

And feel the pangs of loving, 
Yet dream of bliss again. 

E'en then the eye that waileth, 
Will glisten tbrough. the tear ; 

E'en then the hope that faileth, 
Is calm and doubly dear. 

Oh ! Mary, though now parted, 
It brings thee to my sight ; 

Though almost broken hearted, 
I feel a faint delight. 



92 LINES. 

That tells nie hard fate left as 
One hope to rest upon, 

The act that has bereft us, 
Had made our Spirits one. 



T A L A D Y. 93 



TO A LADY 



Upon her ashing " What is LoveV 

And can'st thou dearest gravely ask 
The meaning of the word " to Love ?" 

How could'st thou teach so oft the task, 
And yet its meaning never prove ? 

But since thou'st taught my breast to burn 

With love's delightful misery, 
It were but justice in return 

That I should teach the same to thee. 

But, ah ! my tongue would strive to tell 

In vain the agony I feel, 
For as the trembling accents fell 

Thy cheeks would check the tender tale. 

Then in my breast, thy blushes hide ; 

The brain the meaning ne'er can prove ; 
The heart will tell, and thou'lt not chide, 

The heart alone can tell what's love. 



94 SONG. 



SOJSTG 



There's not on earth a joy so sweet 

As that the tender maiden proves — 
When kneeling — sighing at her feet, 
She see's the youth she fondly loves. 
She weeps and heaves a broken sigh ; 
And cannot tell the reason why. 

There's not on earth a pang so great, 

As that which stabs the doating fair, 
Who falls deserted — knows her fate ; 
Her lover false — her life despair, 
She weeps and heaves a broken sigh. 
And well she knows the reason why. 



LINES WRITTEN, ETC. 95 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF MISS 
ELLEN M . 



I walked with thee beneath the sky, 
When the angels had hung their lamps on high, 
And I loved the moon as in early years 
Ere I found this world was a world of tears, 
And I loved the stars with a holy love 
For they win the soul to their realms above, 
And I thought what a heaven of joy 'twould be 
l^o rove through that world of love with thee. 



But I turned from God's resplendent skies 
To gaze in the heaven of thy blue eyes ; 
little dreaming I there should see 
The star of my evil destiny, 
That told me there is nought to hope, 
Within my gloomy horoscope. 



96 LINES WRITTEN IN THE 

Ellen — I love thee for that name 

So long familiar to my tongue, — 
So cherished in my heart, my brain. 

When life and love and hope were young. 
That there is not a sound on earth, 

Nay, there is not a note in heaven, 
Could waken to a second birth 

The holy feelings crush'd and riven. 

In my poor heart, like that dear name, 
It comes like the eternal flame 
Of light on chaos, rousing up 

The speeches of departed years — 
They tempt me with the rosy cup, 

I taste and find it steep'd with tears, 
Still do I love thee for that name. 
More than ambition, power or fame. 

Thou little dreamest, gentle one. 

The mischief that thine eyes have done ; 

How like a little thief you stole, 

Into the cloister of my soul, 

And scattered round my foolish heart, 

Visions of bliss, so heavenly wild, 
Like to an angel's whisperings 
In the ear of a sleeping child. 



ALBUM OP MISS ELLEN M 07 

Still I'll not blame the artless wile 
That killed me with an angel's smile, 
Though, true, at times, I may regret 
We ever parted, ever met. 
And I may grieve, that thou wilt be 
As dear to others, as thou'rt to me. 

But fare thee well — we soon must part 

And ne'er perhaps to meet again, 
I bear thy image on my heart. 

And on the tablets of my brain 
Is written much that I shall read. 

When thou'rt not near, and thy loved voice 
Shall cease to make my bosom bleed, 

With recollection of the joys 
Of former days, and as the flower 

Kill'd by the wintry snow and rain, 
Peeps forth at spring's reviving power 

E'en so my heart may bloom again. 
And so my thoughts still fondly dwell with thee 
Love, Hope and Joy will break their sepulchre. 



98 SONG. 



SOJ^G, 



Yes I should mourn, 

The false friends gone — 
If you had left me too forlorn, 

But still you are ; 

The Polar star ; 
That guides my weary foot-steps on. 

A meteor light, 

In the darksome night. 
Whilst all around the stars are set, 

That struggles to show, 

In the midst of woe. 
There are things worthy living for yet. 

"Whilst your smiles beam 
Thro' life's dark dream. 
Unbroken 'twill be with sigh or tear, 
I shall not grieve, 
If fate but leave. 
The angel that cheers my existence here. 



TO 99 



TO 



When tlie gloom of the grave is around me, 
And the scene of mortality sunk in decay ; 

When the visions of love that so madly had bound 
me 
To thee, and despair have all flitted away. 

Perchance thou'lt remember that I did adore thee, 
And cease to reproach the sad spirit that's gone ; 

Nay e'en thy proud bosom may deign to deplore 
me 
When virtues, not faults, are remember'd alone. 

When thou shalt remember how fondly you hung 
On the breast where the grave-worm make his 
repast ; 
How falsely you smiled and how madly I clung 
To the lips that swore they would love to the 
last 



100 TO 

Perchance tliQU wilt weep, and oh! well I may 
claim, 

One drop of affliction to hallow my nrn : 
The tears that I've shed in my anguish and shame 

May ask this of thee as a trifling return. 

Since our fatal loves, a dark record of crime. 
Imagined or real has been blazon'd to me : 

Eeproach for my faults ! Heaven knows since that 
time. 
My greatest was too much affection for thee. 

But now let that pass, since you wish to forget 
That I once adored, and your bosom could feel, 

I shall not recall the sad moment we met. 

And the scenes that soon follow'd, shall strive to 
conceal. 

Aye, even from thee, for if there be a sting 
In recalling the past, I should cease to repine. 

Could I bear it alone, and reflection ne'er bring 
One pang to the heart that has near broken 
mine. 



THE COQUETTE. 101 



THE COQUETTE, 



I love little Marj to madness 
I've told lier a hundred times o'er, 
From all I have hidden my sadness, 
Yet all seem to know I adore. 

How is it the world should discover 
The secret I closely conceal ; 
And she alone know not I love her. 
Though I daily my passion reveal ? 



102 TO ELLEN. 



STANZAS — TO ELLEN 



I knew thee when tliy heart was light, 
As down beneath a seraph's wing, 

No tears thy rosy cheeks to blight 

Or thought that left the poisoning sting ; 
When all was calm within thy breast. 
As the grave where sainted mortals rest. 

I clung round thee then, 

In the madness of bliss. 

And felt naught was worth living for, 

Ellen, save this. 

I knew thee when thy heart was rent. 
Thy brain to madness nearly driven ; • 

"When every earthly hope was spent, 
And e'en perhaps thy hopes in Heaven ; 
And 'twas to me as bitterest gall. 
To know that I had caused thee all. 



TO ELLEN. 103 

I clung around tliee then, 
In my grief and dismay, 
And saw all tliat I doated on, 
Fading away. 

Thy shame has past — thy fears have gone ; 
Thy brow as calm as Heaven appears — 
Thy voice — 'tis bliss ! — the only one, 
That soothes me in this vale of tears ; 
Thine eyes — I draw from them the light 
That guide me through this world of night. 
I cling round thee now. 
From anxiety free. 
And find all that I live for, Oh ! 
Ellen, in thee. 



104 FROM ANACREON. 



FEOM ANACEEON 



If hoarded gold would but bestow 

On man a longer life below, 

I never would forsake the pleasure 

Of adding to the valued treasure, 

And thus when death would call, I'd pay 

My fee to live another day. 

But since the proud and poor are doom'd 

Alike to moulder in the tomb, 

And wealth of worlds hath not the power 

One moment to prolong the hour, 

Why should I strive that dross to save. 

Will yield it pleasure in the grave ; 

Then give me whilst through life I pass 

The smiling girl — the sparkling glass. 

That I for griefs may make amends 

With faithful love — and cheerful friends — 

But where's the man possesses here 

A faithful woman — friend sincere ! 



THE PENITENT. 105 



THE PENITENT, 



Spirit of Hope, I have gazed upon thee, 

With thy radiant smile and thine eye of flame ; 
When Time, sped on with his merriest glee, 

The burthen of which, was thy heart cheering 
name. 
And the fairy dreams of earliest love, 

(When the soul is pure, and the heart is light,) 
O'er my enchanted senses would move. 

As the first planets shining on Eden, bright. 

Spirit of Hope, I have called upon thee. 

When the daemon of folly pass over my soul, 
And I felt, as thy smile was turned fondly on me. 

It embittered the poison that mantled the bowl. 
And I turned from thy smile, though thy heavenly 
glance 

Would have banished me far from my sinful fate ; 
Yet senseless I lay in the pride-killing trance, 

'Till roused to a world that was desolate. 



106 THE PENITENT. 

Spirit of Hope, thou hast past from my sight, 

Like the wild eagle's course through the trackless 
wind, 
I heedlessly gazed at your terrible flight, 

That left but a voidless bloom behind. 
'Till the fitful star that led me on 

From all the bowers of Eden, with promised bliss 
Had darkly set — 'till its splendor had gone 

And left me to utter wretchedness. 



LINES. 107 



LINES 



In answer to some verses from a Lady. 

Oh ! yes, thou art mine till the sepulchre close, 
Thy moments of bliss and my measure of woes ; 
Till the last mortal sigh shall have scatter'd the 

gloom 
That dampens all raptures this side of the tomb. 

I feel thou art mine, whilst a spark shall remain 
Of life in thy heart, or of sense in my brain ; 
And till my life's blood, or my reason depart. 
Thy image, beloved, shall remain in my heart. 

'Tis the light of my life, and oh ! thou art to me. 
As the watch-star over the turbulent sea — 
And though the world deem it 2^ fatuous flame, 
I'll follow it even to death or to shame. 

I ask but that light — 'tis the light of my soul. 
Call it madness or reason — no word shall control; 
For whilst you still love, I care not for the name, 
Guilt, rapture, or phrenzy, so thou art the same. 



108 EPIGRAM. 



EPIGEAM 



Mj little babes — said Jane to Kitty, 
Are quite unlike— tbougb botb are pretty. 
One has a little flaxen poll, 
The other's hair is black as coal — 
This striking contrast I admire. 

The reason why, said Kate to Jane, 
'Tis not so easy to explain, 
Tho' one has eyes as black as jet. 
The other's blue as violet. 

Still each resembles much his sire. 



EPITAPH ON AN AGED COUPLE. 109 



EPITAPH ON AN AGED COUPLE. 



Their joys througli life were one, and so their woes ; 
In the same grave their ashes now repose ; 
At the last trump when myriads shall arise, 
God grant they hand in hand ascend the skies, 
" And the bright hope that guided to their rest, 
Angels may sing — * Consummatum est.' " 



110 TO 



TO 



True, we may dream awhile, my dear 

In all tlie luxury of feeling, 
And I may drink tliy smile, my dear, 

'Till madness o'er each sense is stealing. 

And I may gaze upon thee, too, 

'Till all is fairy land around me. 
And you may dream of love, 'tis true. 

Nor see the snake that lurks to wound thee. 

But when from madness' waking, love. 
And there is nought but sorrow near us, 

And when our hearts are breaking, love. 
Without a single hope to cheer us, 

In vain we'll dream of blisses past, 
Forgotten, then, thy love for me ! 

Thy heart will wither in the blast, ■ 
E'en as the rose in Araby. 



TO 



111 



Then shall we cease to cherish, dear, 
The passion that will shortly doom us ? 

'Tis better far to perish here, 
If such a Heavenly flame consume us, 

Than pass an age of littleness. 
And scarcely find a pleasure in it. 

Then Hght the lamp of love and bliss. 
We'll live a life in one short minute. 



112 SONG. 



SONG 



And wilt tlion, Mary, never say ; 

The feelings of tliy breast disclose ? 
See, on my knees I weep — I pray 

My fate impart and end my woes. 

If life by tliee can ne'er be blest, 

I shall not live to mourn my fate : — 

If pity dwell within thy breast 
Then end my woes and say you hate. 



STANZAS. 113 



STANZAS. 



Whilst there's a star in the dark blue sky, 

Or sand on the desert of Araby : 
Till the winds be hnsh'd, and the ocean be dry, 

My bosom shall doat and chng fondly to thee. 

The stars of the night in the morn may set, 
And winds be all hushed in the holiest sleep : 

But, Oh ! thy affection I ne'er shall forget, 

While my soul can feel, or my heart can weep. 

And thou wilt be mine while thy bosom can beat, 
While woman can love — or thy memory last ; 

And when we are doom'd but in anguish to meet, 
We'll turn with delight to the blisses we've past. 

And dream over moments of rapture again, 
'Till life burns more brightly, and woes disappear 

But e'en when the bosom is deluged with pain, 
We'll sigh not, but live for each other, my dear. 



114 STANZAS. 

Yes, I will be thine, while my bosom can beat, 
While honour remains, or my memory last : 

And when we are doom'd but in sorrow to meet. 
Oh 1 I shall still love for the blisses we've past. 



FRANCE. 115 



FRANCE.* 



Unfold your banners to tlie wind ; 

Display the sleeping blade to light ; 
Send forth the slave — the trembling hind 

To perish in the unholy fight. 

The banner deep in slaughter dy'd 
The blade encrusted o'er with blood, 

The heart by tyranny well tried, 

That ne'er a Louis' frown withstand ; 

Compose the band that would control 

The flight of freedom and the soul. 

Go forth, sweet France, while damsels sing 
Thy former pride and majesty, 

The first great deed of Gallia's king 
Is now to shackle liberty. 

* Written in 1821. 



116 JPRANCE. 

For he is gone, wliose deatUess name 
Stands forth among the great, the brave, 

Whose sword bequeath'd a nation's fame 
That now is cringing to a slave ; 

But he is gone, or else this blow 

Had laid his exiled bosom low. 

Thy banners wanton in the wind. 

The sleeping blades now leap to light, 

The monarch sends the trembling hind 
To perish in the unholy fight. 

But lo ! around the dotard's head 

The fates the wreath of cypress twine ; 

And now the crimson mantle spread 
To catch the bitterest drops of brine 

Shed by that poor and trifling thing, 

All Europe's dupe — no longer — King ! 



STANZAS. 117 



STANZAS 



In imitation of some French verses. 

Source of my bliss ; thy soothing smile 
Consoles me in this world of ill ; 

For in the midst of shame and toil, 
I find a bliss in living still. 



Though wreck'd, forlorn with worldly care, 
And fainting with my load of grief, 

Thy image flits between despair. 
To yield my wounded soul relief. 



The taunting world may shun — despise — 
Pursue me to the wilderness ; 

"Whilst fondness sparkles in thine eyes, 
My anguish only serves to bless. 



118 STANZAS. 

Despair is in my wild retreat — 
My only comrade — misery — 

But whilst this wretched heart will beat, 
'Twill throb with gratitude for thee. 

My life — my Mary — thy dear form 
Eaises such transports in my soul, 

That in the midst of sorrow's storm, 
I mock the tempests as they roll. 

Yes ; Mary, whilst thou cling'st to me, 
I'll mock the tempests of my woes ; 

But when deprived of love and thee, 
I'll sink into the grave's repose. 



EPIGRAM. 119 



EPIGKAM. 



In days of old — so stories go, 
Old Orpheus took a trip below, 
But modern husbands need not roam 
They've wife and h-U enough at home. 



ANOTHEK. 

Eurydice, as stories tell, 
Led her spouse Orpheus down to h-U ; 
But wives have long since changed the evil, 
Now drive their husbands to the devil. 



120 EPIGRAM. 



EPIGRAM 



On a certain Doctor, running for a seat in the Senate of 
Pennsylvania. 



A Roman Emperor once, it is said, 

Of his favorite horse a Senator made ; 

But a wonder far greater has now come to pass, 

"We'd make a grave Senator out of an ass ! 



PAUPER'S DEATH. 



Hard Case. 



He was a stranger, no one took him in, — 
Oppress'd by poverty — perchance by sin ; 
No nurse assisted, and no parson pray'd. 
Alone he died, without a doctor's aid. 



EPIGRAM. 121 



EPIGEAM. 

" Delia, my dear, you're so unkind, 
That I have lost my peace of mind ;" 
Quoth Delia " that's no loss at all, 
Your piece of mind's so very small." 



ANOTHEE. 

" I owe you a grudge," said Brown to Jones, 
" And when we meet I'U break your bones ;" 
" An idle threat," Jones calmly said, 
"No debt you owed was ever paid." 



122 EPIGRAM. 



THE SCOLD'S LAST SQUALL. 



" A woman overboard ! my eyes ! she's lost ! 
See, on the foaming billows how she's tost ! 
Jack, can you swim ?" " Like any fish." " save 
That struggling victim from a watery grave." 
" Not I. Row on, and pray make no alarm, 
Her worthy husband never did me harm." 



SONG FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. l!23 



SONG FOE THE FOUKTH OF JULY 



The shrill bngle sounds and the war-horse is 
prancing, 
The flags and the plumes are now waiving on 
high; 
The bright polish'd arms in the sun beams are 
glancing, 
But brighter the beam that is shot from each eye, 
Each bosom is bounding, each pulse now is filling 
With drops that are rich as the gems of the sea, 
And each one we meet in his extacj thrilling 
Has stamped on his visage the soul of the free. 



The cripple goes forth to the splendid array, 

"With spirit roused up that long dormant had 
lain; 

He shoulders his crutches, to honor the day. 
And fights o'er his battles, and conquers again. 



124 SONG FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. 

His little grand-child that is scarcely knee high, 
Now mimics precisely his fugleman sire, 

He stedfastly looks on the warriors eye, 

And draws from their beams an unquenchable 
fire. 

The voice of the maiden is sweeter by far 

As she breathes on this day the bold national 
song, 
And mingles the emblems of peace and of war 
In a wreath for the brows, where her feelings 
belong. 
Each heart is as buoyant as gossamer new. 
Each drop in it pure as a gem of the sea, 
For where is the spirit so dastardly low 

Could sleep through the moment that shouted 
you're free ! 



LINES. 125 



LINES SENT TO A LADY WITH A 
BEOACH. 



This broach I send, dear Nell, 
Is an emblem fit for thee ; 

Behold, the spotless shell, 
Is as pure as pure can be. 

And though the bauble's made 
Of but a spurious shell, 

The likeness still prevails. 
My fair and lovely Nell. 

The time may yet arrive 

When cherub boys and girls 

May call thee, gentle Nell, 
Mother of many pearls. 



126 THE LABORER TO HIS WIFE. 



THE LABOEER TO HIS WIFE. 



Our love was born in poverty, 

His cradle rocked midst doubts and fears ! 
But still the urchin stoutly grew, 

Though nourished with our tears. 

Though roses bloomed upon his cheeks. 
His bright eyes sickened with despair. 

But as we nursed the angel child, 
We found great beauty there. 

At length we kissed away the tears 
That had bedewed his rosy cheek : 

And then we saw the rays of Hope 
Within his bright eyes break. 

And since he has to manhood grown. 
And dried with smiles the infant's tear, 

He proves a very Hercules — 
Our strenojth and solace here. 



FORREST. 127 



FOEEEST 



Let no one question his transcendent art, 

Tlie tragic muse to him should yield the throne, 

Who to Bird's muse new beauties can impart. 
And cast a veil e'en o'er the faults of Stone. 



128 TO REBECCA. 



TO KEBECCA. 



Be pure in heart and strong in mind, 
Perform your duty — kind on earth 

Towards the feeble, and unkind, 
For God creates a second birth. 

Our mortal birth to Time was given. 
The trist of joy and misery — 

Earth's but the vestibule of heaven, 
Time — doorkeeper to eternity. 



LINES. 121' 



LINES. 



"Written in a young Lady's Album on the eve of her 
Marriage. 

The world laughs out before thee, 
The heavens smile brightly o'er thee, 

Hope revels in thy heart. 
Flowers in thy path are springing, 
Birds on each spray are singing, 
AVhile heaven and earth are ringing, 

"Joy, joy can ne'er depart." 

The mountain stream when gushing 

From the cleft rock, and rushing 

Through green and flowery vales, 

Long ere it meets the ocean 

Are lost in wild commotion, 

Its brightness — the devotion 

Eeceived from fragrant gales. 
9 



130 LINES. 

The world soon frowns before us, 
The heavens soon darken o'er us, 

Still hope will cheer the heart. 
Though thorns in your path- way spring, dear, 
Though some may rankle and sting, dear, 
While fondly to one you cling dear ; 

"Joy, joy can ne'er depart." 

The white and filmy cloud, 

That floats like an angel's shroud, 

By the storm is rudely driven ; 
And when it is rent asunder 
By the lightning and the thunder, 
It ceases to raise man's wonder. 

That cloud is still in heaven. 



LINES. 131 



LINES 



Say what lias bound mj soul to thee, 
With fetters death can scarcely break ; 

Is it the fire that lights thine eye, 
Thy fairy form or rosy cheek ? 
No — there are other eyes as bright, 
Cheeks as rosy, forms as light. 

Is it thy breast of driven snow, 
Or jetty curls — that bind my soul, 

Thy coral lips where pearls do grow, 
Or kisses sweet, that thence I stole ? 
No — there are bosoms full as fair, 
And lips that all those treasures bear. 

Then what has thus ensnared my breast, 

If not that thou art heavenly fair ? 
Oh ! when thy angel form I press'd, 

And felt a heart of fondness there. 

'Twas then my mind confess'd there's one 

To rest all earthly hopes upon. 



132 LINES. 

When I beheld thy parting glance, 
And heard the sigh that bade farewell ! 

Oh ! there was more in that short trance, 
Than years of bliss — or words can tell. 
It bade hope rise — life brightly roll 
And fixed thy image in my soul. 



FRAdMENT. 133 



FRAGMENT. 



Adieu ! farewell earth's bliss, 
Tliis world uncertain is ; 
Fond are life's lustful joys, 
Death proves them all but toys, 
None from his darts can fly. 
I am sick, I must die ; 
Lord have mercy on us ; 



Rich men, trust not in wealth , 
Gold cannot buy you health. 
Physic himself must fade ; 
All things to end are made. 
The plague full swift goes by. 
I am sick, I must die ; 
Lord have mercy on us ! 



134 FRAGMENT. 

Haste, therefore, each degree, 
To welcome destiny ; 
Heaven is our heritage, 
Earth but a player's stage. 
Mount we unto the sky. 
I am sick, I must die ; 
Lord have mercy on us ! 



TO THE LOST ONE. 135 



TO THE LOST ONE.* 



Vale et Benedicite. 

In joy we met ; in anguish part ; 

Farewell thou frail misguided one ! 
Young hope sings matins in thy heart, 

While dirges ring in mine alone, 

Solemn as monumental stone. 

Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine ; 

Thy hope all flowers ; mine bitter fruit, 
For hope but blossoms to repine ; 

It seldom hath a second shoot ; — 

A shadow that evades pursuit. 

Though poets are not prophets here, 
Yet Time must pass and you will see, 

While o'er dead joys you drop the tear. 
This world is one Gethsemane 
Where all weep — die — still dream to be. 

* This is the last poem written by R. P. S. It was pub- 
lished in Graham's Magazine a few months before his death, 

H. W. S. 



13f) TO THE LOST ONE. 

Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart, 
But Time spares not the flowers of Spring ; 

The birds that sang there soon depart. 
And leave God's altar withering — 
Flowerless and no bird to sing. 



God pronounced all things good in Eden ; 
Young Adam sang — not knowing evil. 

Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden, 
And made himself to Eve quite civil. — 
Did he tempt her, or she the devil? 

True, she made Eden Adam's heaven ; — 
Also the green earth Adam's hell ; 

Tore from his grasp all God had given ; 
Cast him from bliss in sin to dwell ; 
To make her food by his sweat and blood. 



Then what should man from woman hope, 
Who hurled from Paradise his sire ? 

Her frailty drew his horoscope, 

And barred the gates of heaven with fire 
Chano^ed God's intent for her desire. 



TO THE LOST ON E. 13" 

And what should she from man expect 
Who slew his God her soul to save ? 

A dreary life of cold neglect ;— 
For Eden lost ; — a welcome grave, 
Where kings make ashes with the slave ! 

A welcome grave ! man's crowning hope ! 

All trust from dust we shall revive ; 
Despite our gloomy horoscope, 

Incarnadined God will receive 

His children who slew him to live. 

A frail partition but divides 
Your husband from insanity ; 

He stares as madness onward strides 

To crush each spark of memory 

I gave you all— this you give me ! 
Vale et henedicite. 



FUGITIVE PROSE 



FIRST COLLECTED 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 



How unstable is human opinion! In childliood 
we look forward to the years of maturity for the 
consummation of our dream of happiness; and 
when that period has arrived, we caU up the recol- 
lections of youth, and they bloom again as spots of 
green in the desert. 

I passed by boyhood in a village far remote from 
our populous cities, and the occurrences of those 
thoughtless days made so deep an impression, that 
at this distant period they retain their freshness, and 
doubtless will do so even to the close of life. The 
joys of youth take deep root in the mind and bloom 
for years, whether it be winter or spring with us ; 
but the pleasure of after life are but as flowers of a 
season, that blossom for a day and fade, and fresh 
seed must be scattered before others appear. 

I re-visited the village not long since, after an 
absence of many years. It had undergone numer- 
ous changes, and, as I walked along the streets, 



142 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 

man J new faces presented themselves, and but few 
of the old ones were to be seen. In fact, time had 
rendered me a stranger in a strange place, though I 
had imagined that all would be as familiar to me 
as my own fire-side, and that my welcome would 
have been as cordial. 

With feelings of disappointment, I extended my 
walk to the commons beyond the skirts of the 
village where the school house stood. That had 
undergone no change ; it was still the same but it 
struck me that time had materially diminished it in 
magnitude. It is remarkable how our optics deceive 
us at different stages of life. I looked around with 
delight for every thing was familiar to me: but 
the picture was now in miniature. Objects that I 
had considered remote were near at hand, and 
mountains had dwindled away to comparative 
mole-hills. 

While enjoying the recollections that the scene 
awakened, the door of the school house opened, and 
a man approached. He would have been known 
among a thousand, by his step and air, for a country 
school master. After an awkward bow, he said : 

"A pleasant evening, sir. A charming land- 
scape, and you appear to enjoy it.'' 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOL 143 

" Yes ; it is delightful to look upon familiar faces 
after a long separation." 

He gazed at me earnestly and muttered, " Faces ! 
I have surely seen that face before !" 

" Very possibly ! but not within twenty years." 

"At that period I was a pupil in this school," 
said he, " and if I mistake not, you were also." I 
answered in the affirmative. He grasped me 
immediately by the hand, and shaking it cordially, 
called me by my name. " But," continued he, " you 
appear not to remember me !" 

"True; the human countenance is a tablet upon 
which time is constantly scribbling new characters 
and obliterating the old, and his hand has been 
busily employed upon your front ?" 

" Yes ; another story has been written there since 
the time when we used to lie in wait by a salt lick, 
at midnight, for the coming deer, or glide over the 
surface of the river, with a fire in the stern of our 
canoe, to light us to the hiding places of the salmon 
trout." 

I knew him now to be the same who had been 
my constant companion in the excursions of my 
boyhood. " But, hoAv is this ?" I exclaimed : " have 



144 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 

the old duties of the school devolved upon you ? 
Where is our preceptor ?" 

" Debemur morti nos nostraque !" 

"Dead!" 

"So his tombstone informs us; and in this in- 
stance it speaks the truth, contrary to the usual 
practice of tombstones. He took a cold by exposing 
himself when overheated by the labour of a severe 
flagellation inflicted upon the broad shoulders of a 
dull urchin. You may remember that his manner 
of teaching was impressive, for he rigidly pursued 
the ancient system for imparting knowledge." 

"0! I remember. And doubtless you are as 
great a terror to the rising generation as he was to 
us and our companions. Well, I might have fore- 
told your destiny. Our inclinations are early deve- 
loped ; and it was a prime joke with you, as soon 
as the school was dismissed, to put on the teacher's 
gown, and cap and spectacles, and seating yourself 
in his large oaken chair, call upon us, with mock 
gravity, to go through the forms we had just 
finished." 

" You may also remember," said the school mas- 
ter, "that upon one of these occasions you clam- 
bered up behind me, and gave me a libation from 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 145 

an inkhorn, while the master was standing in the 
door- way, the only one present who could not enter 
into the spirit of the farce we were performing." 

"Xor did we highly applaud his epilogue to our 
entertainment. But where are they now, who joined 
in our thoughtless amusements on that day ?" 

" Scattered as far apart as the four corners of the 
earth! A small room there contained them, and 
they found happiness in it ; but grown to man's 
estate, they roamed the wide world in pursuit of the 
phantom and it eluded their grasp." 

" What became of little Dick Gaylove, who, on 
that occasion, was detected making a profile of our 
old preceptor on the door ? He was a promising 
lad, the pride of his father's heart, and a universal 
favorite in the school." 

" He was, indeed, a boy of fine talents : but judge 
not of the fruit from the flower. He left the village 
for the metropolis, and was educated for the bar. 
He was admired and caressed by his acquaintances, 
became dissipated, ruined his father's fortune, and 
died the death of a prodigal at five-and -twenty." 

" And his brother Tom, who overturned the bench 

upon which Jack Williams and his cousin were 

seated ?" 

10 



146 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 

"He imitated the example set by father Adam ; 
and by cultivating the earth, supported his aged 
parents. If more would do so the world would be 
happier." 

As we walked to the village he gave me a brief 
history of the whole of our schoolmates, and the 
picture presented a vast deal more of shade than 
sunshine. Life may be compared to a tree in full 
bearing. Of the multitude of blossoms how many 
are nipped in the bud I Of the fruit more than half 
falls in its green state, and of that which attains 
maturity much goes to decay before it is gathered 
to use. 



SALEK. 147 



SALEK 



Once upon a time there dwelt in a cave near 
Ispahan, a poor dervise of the name of Salek. He 
belonged to the most self-denying class of his order, 
and as his wants were few, his scanty food and 
miserable raiment satisfied the necessities of nature, 
and daily did he thank Allah for his beneficence. 
Salek was happy in the midst of privation, but his 
heart was touched for the sufferings of others, and 
he prayed that it might be granted him to lighten 
the burthen of those who were heavy laden, and 
wipe the tear from the eye of the mourner. He 
went forth and gathered alms by the way-side from 
the rich, which he distributed to the helpless ; and 
he found that his charity, like the blessed dew of 
heaven, revived alike the drooping weed and the 
flower, wherever it fell. Again did he pour forth 
his soul in gratitude for the charities he had been 
enabled to confer, and in the purity of his heart 
he prayed that his sphere of usefulness might be 



148 S A L E K. 

enlarged, for countless tears were slied he had not 
the power to wipe away. He then threw himself 
upon his bed of torture and slept in peace. 

There were genii in those days. In his sleep the 
dervise had a vision, in which a genius appeared 
and promised that his prayer should be granted to 
the extent of his will; that even the wealth of 
Ispahan, if necessary, should flow into his coffers, 
on condition that he would daily bestow but one 
tithe of his receipts in charity. Fervently did he 
thank Allah in his dream, and promise that his feet 
should know no rest in seeking objects who needed 
his assistance. When he awoke, he found a bag of 
gold on the floor of his cell, which he grasped with 
equal amazement and delight, and went forth on his 
charitable mission. Many a heavy heart did Salak 
that day relieve of its burthen ; and on returning 
to his cell at night, he found ten bags of gold of 
the same size as that he had distributed. He prayed 
and slept. Early the next morning he again went 
forth, bearing as many of the bags as he could carry, 
and wherever he appeared the stricken and the 
oppressed went on their way rejoicing. At night 
he again found that the alms he had distributed had 
been replaced tenfold ; and thus he continued his 



SALEK. 149 

good works, day after day, until his narrow cell 
became too small to contain tlie wealth that Allah 
showered upon him. 

The dervise now purchased a palace in the Square 
of Meyden, and his gardens were freshened with 
cascades from the sparkling waters of the Zender- 
out. For a time he continued to bestow his charity, 
which daily yielded him the promised harvest in 
return; but possessed of the means of indulging 
his appetites, he gradually yielded to the frailties of 
his nature, which he pampered until it became irk- 
some to relieve the craving necessities of his fellow 
mortals. He slept in luxury; thought lightly of 
the stewardship that had been intrusted to him, and 
at length wholly neglected to perform the condition 
upon which his wealth and happiness depended. 

The genius again appeared, and said, "Awake, 
thou sluggard ! Thy promised inheritance, though 
boundless, will escape thee through thy indolence. 
He who bestows all, has asked but one tithe out of 
thine abundance, which has been refused. He asked 
not of thine necessity, but of his own profusion ; 
and thou has withheld a mite from the cravings of 
his children, though thy own reward would have 
been multiplied to the extent of thy wishes. 



150 S A L E K. 

Awake, thou fool I He who refuses to scatter the 
seed, must not hope to gather in the harvest." 

When the dervise awoke, he discovered that his 
wealth had vanished, and that he was again as 
destitute as when the genius first appeared to him. 
Humbled in spirit, he left his palace and returned to 
his cell : and as he resumed his garb of penitence, 
he sighed, '*-In my poverty I was keenly alive to 
the misfortunes of the most lowly ; in my pros- 
perity, dead even to my God." He again gathered 
alms by the way-side, and dried the tears of the 
stricken. He no longer gave sparingly from pro- 
fusiouy but freely from his frugal store ; and at 
length the genius again appeared and renewed the 
promise, " Thou art now truly the almoner of Allah. 
He has entrusted but little to thee, yet of that little 
thou bestowest all, and with all thy heart. Thy 
reward shall be, not only tenfold, but as the single 
grain of wheat compared to the yield of the harvest 
field ; and it shall be garnered for thee where the 
thief cannot break in, nor time consume it." 



NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 151 



NETTLES ON THE GEAYE. 



Strolling througli a cemetery, I beheld within 
one of the enclosures a widow who had buried her 
only child there, some two years before. I accosted 
her, and tendered my assistance. "Thank you," 
she replied, " my task is done. I have been pulling 
up the nettles and thistles that have overgrown little 
Willie's grave, and have planted mnemonics, heart's 
ease, and early spring flowers in their place, as 
more fitting emblems of my child ; and though they 
may fail to delight him, they will remind me that 
there is a spring time even in the grave, and that 
Willie will not be neglected by Him who bids these 
simple flowers revive. But is it not strange how 
rank nettles and all offensive weeds grow over the 
human grave — even a child's grave?" 

" I remember you mourned grievously at losing 
him, but trust time has assuaged affliction." 

"Its poignancy is blunted, but memory is con- 
stantly hovering around my child. Duty and reason 



152 NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 

have taught me resignation ; still I seldom behold a 
boy of his age, but fancy pictures to me how he 
would have appeared in the various stages of his 
progress toward manhood. And then again I see 
him like his father — and myself a proud and happy 
mother in. old age. True, you may call it an idle, 
baseless dream ; and so it is, but I cannot help in- 
dulging in it." 

" Dream on ! the best of life is a dream." 

We walked a few steps, and paused before an in- 
closure where reposed the remains of a worthy man, 
with nothing more than his unobtrusive name in- 
scribed upon a marble slab to designate his resting- 
place. He was respected for his integrity and energy ; 
beloved for his utility and benevolence. Here was 
no lying inscription, making the grave gorgeous, as 
if monumental mendacity might deceive Divinity. 
His record was elsewhere, traced by unseen fingers. 

"There are no nettles on that good man's grave," 
said the widow. " I knew him well ; weeds would 
wither there ; nothing but flowers should cover his 
ashes." 

A few young men at the time were idly passing. 
They paused, when one tearing a weed from the 
pathway, hurled it among the floAvers, exclaiming, 



NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 153 

" Let him rot there with weeds for his coverinsf." The 
slumbering dust thus spurned had long sustained the 
ingrate who now voided his venom upon the bene- 
factor who had fed him until there was no longer 
faith in hope. The widow sighed ; " And this is on 
the grave of the good and just !" 

" Had Willie lived, he might have been such a 
man, and such would have been his harvest." 

In the next tomb a brave soldier mingled his ashes 
with the red earth of Adam. In his early career he 
was placed in a position where daring energies alone 
could command success. He succeeded, and was 
rewarded by a nation's approbation. No subsequent 
opportunity occured to acquire peculiar distinction ; 
and when he died, a shaft was erected commemo- 
rating the most remarkable action of his life. His 
tomb attracted the attention of some visitors who 
read his epitaph. " Characteristic of the age !" ex- 
claimed one, throwing a pebble at the inscription, 
" to swell a corporal to the dimensions of a Csesar. 
It was the only action of a protracted life, worthy of 
record, and here it is emblazoned for the pride of 
posterity." Had the thoughtless scoffer of the un- 
conscious dead occupied his position, which gained 
renown, history possibly might have perpetuated 



151 NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 

disgrace, instead of a tombstone record of gallant 
services — the patriot's sole reward. 

" You knew the soldier?" 

" For years, and well. A brave and worthy man. 
The current of his useful life flowed smoothly on, 
without being ruffled by the breath of calumny." 

" And yet nettles cover his grave already !" 

'• Such might have been your child's destiny — but 
that matters little ; praise or scorn are now alike to 
the old soldier." 

We passed to a spot where a gay party was lean- 
ing on a railing. A young woman had plucked some 
of the gayest flowers from the enclosure, and was 
laughing with her merry companions. As we ap- 
proached, she threw the bouquet already soiled and 
torn, on the grave ; and they went their way with 
some idle jest upon their lips. The widow paused, 
and struggled to suppress her emotion, 

" Did you know the tenant of this grave ?" 

" From his childhood. He loved that woman, and 
struggled to acquire wealth to make her happy. He 
succeeded, and when she discovered that he was 
completely within her toils, she deceived and left 
him hopeless. There are men whose hearts retain 
the simplicity of childhood through life ; and such 



NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 155 

was his. Without reproaching her, or breathing her 
name to any one, he suddenly shrunk as a blighted 
plant, and withered day by day, until he died. Like 
the fabled statuary, he was enamored of the creature 
his own mind had fashioned, and in the credulity of 
his nature, he made her wealthy, trusting that time 
would infuse truth and vitality into the unreal vision 
of his youthful imagination. The world of love is 
a paradise of shadows ! The man beside her is now 
her husband ; the wealth they revel in, this grave 
bequeathed them." 

" The fool ! to die heart-broken — for a dream. But 
great men have at times died broken-hearted. I 
should not call him fool. It is a common death 
among good men." 

" Great men ! But women, sir, have pined away 
to death." 

" In poetry, the bill of mortality is a long one ; in 
real life the patients seldom die, unless they chance 
to be both vain and poor. Did a rich widow ever 
grieve to death for the loss of the noblest husband ? 
Wealth is a potent antidote to the malady, and teaches 
resignation; while poverty, with the first blow of 
his iron sledge, will make his cold anvil smoke with 



156 NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 

the heart's blood, for he is buried who for years had 
withstood the blow." 

^' That woman did not cast nettles on his grave." 
" No nettles, but faded roses which she tore from 
it — blooming when she came there. Better cast 
stones and nettles than those withered flowers. 
Your boy has escaped this poor man's destiny — the 
Avorst of deaths ! His was the happiest ! he died — 
smiling — on his fond mother's bosom ! But there 
is a grave around which weeds grow more luxu- 
riantly, than about the sepulchre where mortal dust 
reposes. Daily watchfulness is required to prevent 
the bright creations therein buried, from being so 
over-run until nothing is seen to designate the 
beautiful tomb, where we had carefully embalmed 
them, as if in amber." 

" What grave, sir, do you refer to ?" 
"The human mind. A mighty grave wherein 
we daily bury crushed hopes and brilliant epheme- 
rons, too fragile to survive the chill atmosphere of a 
solitary day. Keep the weeds from growing there 
and smothering their memories. They are the pro- 
geny of the soul, and should not be allowed to 
perish Shall the joyous and beautiful creations of 
childhood be forgotten in age? must the noble 



NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 157 

aspirations of the vigor of manliood pass away with- 
out even an epitaph, because crushed in their vigor ? 
Eather contemplate them hourly; plant flowers 
beside them, though they bloom but briefly and 
fade, they will send forth perfume even in decay, 
and inevitably revive in due season, bearing refresh- 
ing fruit; and old age, with palsied hand, will 
readily gather up the long account of his steward- 
ship, and as he glances over the lengthened scroll 
that must become a record in the archives of 
eternity, may rejoice that he has not been an ingrate 
and idler in the heat of the harvest-field, but hath 
diligently laboured to make the entrusted talent 
yield the expected usage. Tear up the weeds that 
are incessantly growing there, ere he who was 
placed little lower than the angels, becomes an 
empty cenotaph — a stranger's grave — mouldering 
and mingling with his mother earth unheeded and 
unknown." 



158 THE DREAM OF MEDEMET. 



THE DKEAM OF MEHEMET. 



An Apologue. 



Thus spoke the gray-haired dervise. Selim was 
left to my care ; his dying parents bequeathed him 
an ample fortune, and their example of virtue and 
affection. Such was his inheritance. 

He was a dreamy boy, in whose soul the opposite 
passions revelled. Gentle as the dove, yet, under 
aggression, fierce as the tiger. He loved as angels 
love ; hated as fiends hate. Framed as delicately as 
the gazelle, yet every sinew was endowed with the 
tenacity of steel. At the age of manhood, I, his 
old preceptor, bowed to the superior endowment of 
my pupil, but knew not the fountain of his know- 
ledge. 

I have said he was a dreamy boy, yet he had 
made the broad pages of nature his book of know- 
ledge, even while dreaming. The fertile earth pre- 



THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 159 

sented her abundant lap overflowing witli fruit to 
delight his palate ; the flowers peered in his face 
with their variegated eyes, and sent forth their 
incense, even while he trod upon them. The 
cadence of the waterfall, the low twittering of the 
wearied bird as it flitted to its fledglings in the nest, 
and the murmuring of the passing breeze as it 
struggled through the grove, were to him a lullaby 
that charmed to sleep as the angels sleep. Nature 
was his mother, and she nursed him with playthings 
as her child. 

I have seen him by the small streams composing 
songs to the music that the dimpled waters babbled, 
until his rosy cheeks dimpled and laughed in con- 
cert with the rippling brook, as if it were a thing 
of life, rejoicing in its existence, as his own pure 
heart rejoiced. They laughed and babbled together. 

On the wood-clad mountains at midnight, when 
the elements battled, I have seen him straining his 
feeble voice to sound the master-key that attunes to 
universal harmony ; and having caught it, he would 
spring like the antelope to a lofty waterfall to dis- 
cover the same note there ; and then turn up his 
bright face to the stars that smiled upon him, and 
laugh, expecting to hear them respond to his note 



160 THE DREAM OF M E H E M E T. 

as they revolved on tlieir eternal axes. His dark 
eyes smiled, and the conscious stars smiled back in 
the heaven of his dark eyes, which glanced with 
delight in the diamond rays of the stars. 

Flowers were books to him, and from every leaf 
he read wisdom fragrant with truth. He cultivated 
them as a father would his last child. The little 
birds were his companions, and every morning he 
joined their concert until the tiny minstrels seemed 
to imagine that he was the leader of their orchestra. 
All nature was to him one mighty minister, bestow- 
ing all, while he asked from nature no more than 
the blessed privilege of imitating her, by bestow- 
ing on his fellow-man all in return. He had a dog, 
whose former owner had thrown into a stream to 
drown as worthless. Selim swam and saved the 
ill-looking cur, who followed him ever after until it 
appeared that instinct trod close upon the heel of 
reason. Selim in his turn, while bathing, became 
exhausted, and sinking beneath the stream, the dog 
plunged in and saved his dying master. Was this 
instinct or reason ? It matters not, but Selim per- 
ceived that the Prophet had made his humanity 
toward a friendless dog the means of prolonging his 
own existence here. Despise not little things, cried 



THE DREAM OP MEHEMET. 161 

Mehemet, for tlie smallest is of magnitude in the 
sight of tlie Prophet. A straw may break the back 
of the over-burthened ; one word may consign a 
man to poverty or prosperity, one deed to hell or 
heaven. 

Selim's wants were few, his fortune ample, which 
he bestowed upon the deserving with as liberal a 
hand as it had been bestowed upon himself. Still 
he labored in the pursuit he had adopted, not for 
self-aggrandizement, but to assist others; and he 
knew not why man should be a sluggard while all 
nature is incessantly at work. The bee and ant 
work in their season — and even the spider too. 

His garden blossomed as Eden, and the flowers 

offered up their grateful incense even as they faded 

and died upon the universal altar of Nature's God. 

His aviary from morn until night was vocal, and 

when the flaming chariots of the bright eye of day 

was whirled by fiery -footed steeds over the eastern 

hills, I have seen him with his flute, surrounded by 

nature's tiny choristers pouring forth their matins 

until some note in the universal harmony touched 

the heart of his poor shaggy cur who sported 

around and tried to bark in unison. Then Selim 

laughed outright, and the birds stopped their 

11 



163 THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 

hymns, and seemed to langli witli Selim, and the 
poor dog slunk away abashed, and slyly laughed at 
his miserable failure. 

He married the dark-eyed Biribi. Selim was a 
poet ; his soul revelled alike in tempest or sunshine, 
and his voice was as musical as the wings of the 
bee when he distills honey. He possessed the 
sweets of the bee, and his sting also. Biribi was 
abjectly poor, but in Selim's eyes as full of truth 
and as beautiful as the houries. He exclaimed, I 
will raise poverty above oppression, and place 
virtue where all her handmaids may minister to her 
enjoyment. Alas ! it was but a young poet's dream 
— and such dreams are too frequently disturbed by 
palpable agony. Thus spoke Mehemet. 

He had a friend who was his fellow-student while 
under my charge. Selim loved him as a brother, 
and when he married he requested Zadak to dwell 
with him. Neither house, garden, nor fields could 
be more beautiful, while his flocks and herds were 
nature's ornaments. Such was Selim's Eden. 

Zadak borrowed a portion of his fortune, which 
he squandered ; but the poor boy simply replied, 
" no matter, we require but little, and enough still 
remains to make us happy. Thank the Prophet for 



THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 163 

that wMcli we still possess, and repine not for that 
wliicli we have lost. "We can labor with our fellow- 
men." 

Biribi became estranged from the pure being who 
fancied he had made in her bosom a nest for his 
dove-like heart to sing in. He awoke from a dream 
of repose to battle with the tempest. Zadak had 
betrayed him, and the gentle spirit of my boy was 
crushed between the sledge and the anvil ; but the 
eternal fire that burnt within him, burst forth in one 
mighty blaze as the sledge fell ; and even the sledge 
and the anvil rejoiced at the fire they had elicited 
from his heart's blood. 

What was to be done ? The question was soon 
settled. The dove had winged its way to heaven, 
but left the tiger on earth to punish the injuries 
done to the dove. Selim slew Zadak, and then 
walked to the tribunal to receive his sentence, 
knowing that an act that was approved by the 
immutable principle of eternal justice in heaven, 
would be pronounced a damning crime by drones 
who are fed to dole out punishment for breaking 
the conventional rules by which fools and knaves 
are linked together on earth. He confessed all 
before man as he had already confessed before God. 



164 THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 

Ignominious deatli was Ms sentence in tlie eye of 
his fellow-creature ; but God changed his sentence 
to that of eternal life ; he died of a broken-heart, 
and escaped man's justice, tempered with degrada- 
tion, and flew to the limpid and overflowing 
fountain — the bosom of his Creator for justice — 
knowing it to be a principle of eternity, and not of 
time. 

I buried him beneath a cluster of trees, where he 
had pursued his studies. He had no mourners 
except myself and his dog. The grave of the rich 
man is seldom bedewed by the tears of his heirs ; 
while the poor hard-working man may have many 
sincere mourners, provided they depended upon his 
daily labor for their bread. It was spring-time, I 
planted flowers from his garden over his grave, 
and placed his aviary among the trees. The birds 
sang and the flowers smiled as if he were still with 
them. One morning I missed his dog, and searched 
for him until the impulse of nature guided my foot- 
steps to the boy's grave. The dog was there, pil- 
lowed on a cluster of fragrant flowers — dying ; big 
tears stood in his leadened eyes, while the little 
birds from the blooming trees, warbled his requiem. 
They knew the dog, and he knew the birds, even 



THE DREAM OF M E H E M E T. 165 

while dying. The flowers were bedewed with his 
tears, and I buried him beside his master, beneath 
the flowers. 

Autumn came ; the little birds had taken wing ; 
the grove was no longer vocal ; the flowers had 
faded, and their fragrance had passed away. Well, 
I exclaimed, the rosy-fingered stream will return, 
leading the birds back to warble as usual, and the 
flowers will revive with their former fragrance and 
beauty? "And is my boy dead?" my soul 
shrieked. " No !" replied a voice, kindly, and it 
seemed to me as if the lips were smiling as the 
judgment passed the lips, " the boy is not dead, but 
sleepeth, awaiting his spring-time, when the birds 
will sing, and the flowers bloom for him again, and 
bloom for eternity." Thus spoke the dervise, and 
his old frame chuckled with delight, for he was 
confident of the fulfillment of the promise. 

I reposed by his grave, said Mehemfet, and had a 
vision, which was this. His grave opened, and he 
arose more beautiful than when in the bloom of 
manhood. There was a bright star just over his 
heart, and methought it was composed of the tears 
his dying dog had shed upon his grave, and I smiled 
in my sleep at the fantastic thought. The flowers 



166 THE DREAM OF M E H E M E T. 

sent fortli their incense, and myriads of birds, as 
he ascended from his tomb, fluttered about him, 
leading the way, warbling their anthems ; the gay 
flowers smiled at heaven, as if they were the eyes 
of the teeming earth, laughing their gratitude. 
The features of Selim became more benign as he 
ascended; the songs of the birds more seraphic, and 
the fragrance of the flowers more refreshing. 

Suddenly a cloud of inky darkness covered the 
face of the earth. Two ghastly figures emerged 
from it, with uplifted eyes that were rayless, and 
supplicating hands that trembled with terror. Oh ! 
what must that man be, exclaimed Mehemet, who 
trembles before the All-merciful, even while sup- 
plicating mercy ! Selim cast a look of compassion 
upon the guilty pair, and tried to tear the star from 
his bosom to throw to them, but the more he strove, 
the brighter the star became — it illuminated his 
ascending spirit— and finding his efforts fruitless, 
he raised his radiant face toward the boundless blue 
canopy, cheered onwards by the hymns of his little 
choristers through regions of light, and the teeming 
earth smiled as she poured forth her grateful 
incense, as if jealous that the disembodied spirit 



THE DREAM OP MEHEMET. 167 

miglit forget tlie fragrance of this world wliile 
reveling in the atmosphere of heaven. 

I heard a shriek of despair, and turning to the 
sea of darkness which was fearfully troubled, I 
beheld the guilty pair, desperately struggling in 
their agony against the angry billows. They 
struggled in vain. With a fiend-like shriek they 
disappeared, and sunk through a rayless abyss of 
doom, without even the tear of a dog to bewail their 
destiny. Selim soared upward, and still more 
effulgent became the heavens as he ascended. 
There was one mighty strain of seraphic music that 
filled the universe ; the blue arch opened, from 
which issued a stream of light strong enough to 
restore vision to the rayless eyes of the ancient dead ; 
then I awoke as I beheld Selim enter the eternal 
portals. 

This continued the old man, may be but a dream 
at present, but the time will come when it must be 
verified. He then slowly tottered to his cell to dream 
out the remnant of his existence. 



168 SELF-IMPORTANCE. 



SELF-IMPOETANCE 



Self-importance is a prominent feature in tlie 
genus homo. Most men delude themselves with, the 
idea that they are naturally endowed with abilities 
for all purposes, but circumstances have retarded 
the full development of their faculties. We accord- 
ingly have tinkers mending the constitutions of the 
several States, which our forefathers imagined were 
framed by the wisest sages of their times ; and we 
behold the artist, whose business it is to heel-tap 
our soles and patch up our understanding, gravely 
revising the decisions of our highest judicial 
tribunals, reversing their judgments, and satisfying 
an approving audience that he and the chief justice 
of the United States should change positions for the 
benefit of the universal human family. Nee sutor 
ultra crepidam. 

There is not a venerable crone, whose wisdom 
consists in a portion of Esau's peculiar beauty on 



SELF-IMPORTANCE. 169 

her cbin, and who may have prepared a salve to 
cure a disease, very annoying to the motive-power 
of fubsy dowagers, and celebrated on the hoofs of 
Caesar's horse, who does not imagine that the mantle 
of Galen has descended on her shoulders, and that 
the whole medical faculty, compared to her in the 
healing art, are immeasurably worse than even old 
women. When some fashionable finisher of the 
human form divine, has managed to equip a non- 
descript so as to pass muster in a ball-room, whose 
proper place of exhibition would have been a 
menagerie of strange animals, but that the good- 
nature of naturalists, stretching to the extent 
Monboddo's theory, classified him as belonged to 
those who form the first connecting link with 
human beings — we behold him, like Ancient Pistol, 
strutting about as if the world were his oyster, and 
imagining that all gazers are his admirers, and 
vainly striving to become his icon — and then he 
shows his paces and his graces, to make manifest 
the utter futility of the attempt of his uninitiated 
imitators. 

The female belonging to this variety, as entomolo- 
gists term it, labor under a similar delusion ; and 
when they have buckled on their panoply, and 



170 



SELF-IMPORTANCE 



sally fortli for miglitj deeds of arms, tbey feel them- 
selves as invulnerable as Acliilles, unmindful that, 
like him, one spot is frequently left unguarded — 
the heel ! Better remain within their fortress and 
darn their hose before they march to the battle- 
field. Many a captive, who has fallen prostrate at 
the victor's feet, has miraculously escaped through 
an unsightly hole espied in a dirty stocking. 
Linnaeus has clearly demonstrated that all perfect 
Eeliconii and Nymphales, most thoroughly cleanse 
themselves of the remains of the Larvae and Pupa 
state, before they venture to appear as the Imago. 

A scribbler who has written a sonnet on a setter 
slut will class himself among literary characters, 
and because Shakspeare and Milton both wrote 
sonnets, he entertains a fraternal feeling for them, 
and that they may not be forgotten, he condescends 
to review the dramas of the one, and the Paradise 
Lost of the other ; and it is a daily entertainment to 
hear pot-house politicians pronouncing judgment 
upon the gravest questions of national policy, and 
measuring the ocean of intellect of profound states- 
men by the shallow capacity of their own conceited 
craniums. 

But what is the result of this self-esteem — 



SELF-IMPORTANCE. 171 

assumption of the tripod — supposed ability for all 
things ? Most who entertain such an exaggerated 
estimate of themselves, become dissatisfied with the 
pursuit in which they were instructed, and looking 
with envy upon the success of others in a different 
calling, they listen to the promptings of vanity, and 
imagine they would have been equally prosperous 
had they adopted the same course. They abandon 
a trade in which they have skill, and steer their frail 
bark into an untried channel, which almost invaria- 
bly conducts them to wreck and ruin, and society 
loses an adept in an important pursuit, and gains a 
miserable quack in another, who brings disgrace and 
poverty upon himself, and injury to those who are 
sufficiently credulous to entrust him. 

By way of illustration, suppose a village where 
the blacksmith, from having been a farrier, turns 
physician, and is prepared to bleed and drench any 
donkey — biped or quadruped — who will entrust his 
life in his hands, and the disciple of Galen exchanges 
his pestle and mortar for the sledge and anvil. We 
may safely assert there would be but little entertain- 
ment for either man or horse in that village. The 
tailor, from having made many suits, imagines that 
he could conduct one as well as the attorney, and 



172 SELF-IMPORTANCE. 

they accordingly change positions. What would be 
the result ? It is proverbial, that when a man goes 
to law, he will certainly have his coat stripped from 
his back — and perhaps he deserves it ; but if the 
village litigants should be so fortunate as to prove 
the proverb a fallacy, and escape with a certain por- 
tion of those external embellishments which Adam, 
when he made his entrd into the wide world, thought 
it decent and proper to put on, they must go about 
in their shirt-sleeves, or wear garments of more fan- 
tastic fashion than the party-colored coat which the 
fond old patriarch made for his favorite child. Al- 
though there are instances of legal scoundrels being 
made of very indifferent tailors — for lawyers are 
now manufactured from all sorts of mongrel mate- 
rial — yet it is not of record that a pettifogging law- 
yer ever made even a tolerable tailor, from which it 
may be inferred that the villagers would soon desire 
to behold their Knight of the Goose and Shears 
seated, like the god Vishnu, cross-legged, on his 
shop-board again, making pockets for others to 
pick, and the lawyer-tailor attending to his legiti- 
mate pursuit of stripping backs instead of covering 
them. 

It is a dogma that all men are born free and equal, 



SELF-IMPORTANCE. 173 

consequently all factitious distinctions have very 
properly been abolished from among us. We look 
with sovereign contempt upon a star and garter, in- 
tended to distinguish one mass of conceited mortality 
from another, but at the same time frequently dero- 
gate from high moral worth and intellectual endow- 
ment when they combine to create pre-eminent dis- 
tinction. "We shrink instinctively "from all titles, 
such as — my lord, count, duke, or prince — for they 
are the Shibboleth to test our sense of equality ; and 
yet every man in the limited circle of his acquain- 
tance has a whole regiment of captains, colonels, 
majors and corporals, every one of whom would 
feel curtailed of his fair proportions, if his title of 
distinction be omitted ; and if you write to your 
tailor — as that important artist was styled in the 
olden time, but mercer in this age of improve- 
ment — to send home your galligaskins, you wound 
to the very quick his chivalrous spirit and delicate 
sense of etiquette, if you fail to attach esquire to his 
name. 

Self-esteem is illustrated by an anecdote related 
by the Duke of Saxe- Weimer, in his book of travels 
through this country. He was waiting in front of 
a tavern for a stage-coach, when the driver accosted 



174 SELF-IMPORTANCE. 

him thus : " Are you the man who is going to Con 
cord ; if so, get in — for I am the gentleman that's to 
drive you." Now there was a man of keen percep- 
tive faculties. True, he failed to discover the gen- 
tleman in the duke, but the gentleman, with all his 
inherent rights, titles and appurtenances, could not 
escape him when he contemplated the coach-driver. 

We cling to petty distinctions, however insignifi- 
cant, and accordingly address some by the title of 
" your excellency ;" and others we style " the hon- 
orable ;" though at times it happens that they never 
possessed one spark of excellence or honor on God's 
earth, until we thought proper to make them either 
a governor, a judge, or a member of Congress. This 
silly vanity is increasing to such an extent that the 
time must arrive when we shall be unable to find a 
private and untitled citizen in the whole United 
States. We shall become a perfect anomaly on the 
map of the world, presenting a nation composed 
altogether of corporals and generals, judges and gov- 
ernors — or at least, not to speak it profanely — jus- 
tices of the peace. 

Although, as a nation, we are ever ready to mag- 
nify the worth of our great departed — the sages of 
the revolution — and with one accord admit that 



SELF-IMPORTANCE. 175 

there were giants on the earth in those days, we 
are blind to the fact, though the civilized world 
bears voluntary testimony to its truth, that there 
are giants in this nation even now. But, unfortu- 
nately, self-conceit and envy, have generated 
myriads of little Davids in the land, who imagine 
they possess the ability with their pebble-slings to 
reach the radiant foreheads of those giants, and 
bring them to the dust ; and what is rather remarka- 
ble, these pigmy Davids, in the vanity of their 
ambition, aim at slaughtering Goliahs only. Self- 
importance, with a smack of envy, soon begets the 
spirit of detraction — all things on earth pay tribute 
to detraction. It is a tax which the little and 
envious exact from the great and good; but no 
nation can become truly great without entertaining 
an honest veneration for the characters of its distin- 
guished citizens. 

What would have been the history of Ancient 
Greece and Rome but one noisome record of aggres- 
sion and voluptuousness, had it not been for their 
philosophers, statesmen, patriots, and poets. Those 
nations are indebted for their permanent glory to 
the exalted virtues of individuals ; for their down- 
fall and degradation to the weakness and vices of 



176 BELF-IMPORTANCE. 

the multitude. Let us not become weary of hearing 
Aristides called the Just, but rather render unto 
Ca3sar the things which are Caesar's. Sustain those 
whom merit has exalted, and not from envy, 
attempt to pull them down to our individual level. 
The reckless and imbecile defamer should ever bear 
in mind, that although the filthy snail may leave 
his slimy trace even on God's sacred altar, that 
altar is still as sacred, and is approached by the 
pure and just with undiminished veneration, not- 
withstanding the mark of the snail may continue 
for a time. 



BATOR THE DERYISE. 177 



BATOE, THE DERVISE. 



In" tlie olden time there dwelt near Basra, a 
poor dervise by the name of Bator. He belonged 
to the most rigid and pure of their numerous 
orders, and such was his zeal that he refused to 
recognise the Naeshbendies as belonging to their 
fraternity, for they mingled with mankind as other 
men, while he dwelt in a cave secluded and alone. 
No human ear heard his incessant shout — " Ya hu ! 
ya Allah !" — that commenced with the morning 
sun, and ceased not, until he fell through exhaustion 
at midnight, on the bed of spikes he had prepared 
to receive him. No one beheld the unsightly 
wounds he had inflicted in the zeal of his devotion ; 
and not even Allah himself heard a sigh of anguish 
at his sufferings. 

There were good genii in those days. They 

knew that Bator wished to strip off all human 

frailty, and cultivate alone those virtues that would 

render him acceptable in the sight of Allah. His 

12 



178 BATOR, THE DERVISE. 

prayers at lengtTi were lieard ; tTie few evil passions 
he possessed were exorcised, and charity, mercy, 
benevolence, and all the heavenly emanations that 
mortal may attain, came and took np their dwell- 
ing in the lonely cell of Bator. 

He was now happy; no mortal more so. Sur- 
rounded alone by virtues, the solitude re-echoed 
his incessant cry — " Ya hu ! ya Allah ! Praise to 
thee ! I am not as a ISTaeshbendie, and dwell not 
among sinful men." And then he would scourge 
his flesh, and stretch himself upon his bed of torture, 
and turn smiling, for the approval of the heavenly 
attributes, who sat drowsily beside him — all save 
Pity, who at times would drop a tear as she beheld 
his sufferings. 

Thus years passed away, and the guests of Bator, 
from sheer idleness, slumbered undisturbed even by 
his shouts of devotion, and Pity herself had m> 
longer the tribute of a tear to offer. 

One day as he beheld them sleeping, and 
thought — "why is it they sleep?" — he heard a 
voice cry — "Bator, come forth!" and suddenly 
there appeared at the door of his cell the most 
beautiful and fascinating figure, the imagination of 
the recluse could conceive. She was attired in a 
fantastic manner, and in the brightest colours, but 



BATOR, THE DERVISE. 179 

every movement was full of grace and seduction. 
The hermit felt lier influence, and tried to woo her 
to his cell — " I may not dwell with thee there," she 
cried, " I should perish soon. But arise, Bator, and 
come forth, and I am thine." It was beyond the 
power of the dervise to resist, he rushed into the 
embrace of the tempter; and all the virtues that 
were slumbering in his cell, suddenly awoke, and 
followed him. The gay visitant was Yanity. 

She led Bator and his train to Basra, and as they 
mingled in the populous city, the dervise found that 
the virtues that had hitherto slept were now even 
prompting him to deeds of benevolence. Charity 
opened his hand, and Pity the fountain of tears, 
while Yanity prevented him from relaxing in his 
labours. There passed not a day in which Bator 
did not some good ; and his fame spread abroad 
until it reached the ears of the Shiek of Basra, who 
made him his public almoner, and then the dervise 
cried, " Ya hu! ya ! Allah ! Praise to thee! — thou 
hast made me a Naeshbendie, to live among men 
as other men" — and it was a saying of his to the 
day of his death, that " all the virtues are of little 
use to the human heart, if we strip it of the frailties 
of mortality; for they would seldom go far from 
home if they were not accompanied by Yanity." 



180 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 



AZIB AND HIS FEIENBS, 



Azib's father was a wealthy merchant of Bagdad. 
He did not garner to gratify avarice or ostentation, 
but that his strength might sustain the feeble and 
unfortunate. Azib, full of intelligence and benevo- 
lence, was the pride and joy of his father's soul ; 
and when the old man was dying, he blessed him, 
and said, " Thou hast been to me, my son, all I could 
have asked of Heaven to make earth heaven ; and 
though you have dimmed my old eyes with many a 
tear, they were but tears of gratitude to Omnipo- 
tence for making me the father of such a son." The 
dying blessing was a richer inheritance to Azib than 
all his father's wealth. 

Azib had now many friends, for he was liberal in 
aiding those less prosperous than himself. On the 
anniversary of his birth-day he entertained them 
splendidly, and even the caliph could scarcely have 
numbered as many friends as surrounded Azib on 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 181 

that occasion. A feast will furnish the rich man 
with many friends, but very few friends will furnish 
the poor man with a feast. Among the guests, Azib 
discerned one whose graceful movements riveted his 
attention ; he was charmed with him, but he could 
not recognize him, for his features were hidden bj 
an impervious mask. The stranger appeared to be 
familiar with all the company, yet all avoided him. 
Azib requested his guests to introduce him, but all 
disavowed the slightest knowledge of the stranger. 
Azib approached the intruder, gave him a cordial 
welcome, and asked his name. 

" Not at present," he replied. " I am the bosom 
companion of all your friends, yet they are ashamed 
to acknowledge me in your presence. My appear- 
ance seems to please you ; still, at some future day, 
when you thoroughly know me, you will recoil from 
me with disgust." 

Azib smiled, and taking him by the hand, said : 
" You are frank, however, my friend. Come, our 
feast is ready ; and though your friends may disown 
you, sit at my right hand at the head of the table." 

It was a joyous festival ; the guests smiled to be- 
hold the favor that Azib bestowed upon the stranger, 
who chuckled with such inward delight, that it was 



182 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

with difficulty lie prevented tlie mask from falling 
from his countenance. 

Years passed away. There is no well so deep but 
that it may be drained. Azib's wealth was now 
exhausted, like a spring in a dry season, that had 
supplied manifold babbling streams, which never 
return a drop to the fountain head, but when ex- 
hausted, unmindful of the days of plentitude, 
reproach their source with the last drop given. 

In his difficulties, Azib gave a feast, confident 
that his friends would be anxious to return him the 
money he had loaned them, and relieve him from 
his embarrassment. All assembled at the time 
appointed, with smiling faces, and the man in the 
mask, though not invited, was among them. Azib 
made his necessities known to each, but so far from 
being grateful for benefits conferred, they excused 
themselves from being even honest. As a last re- 
source, he appealed to his unknown guest, who 
laughed in his face, and turning on his heel, min- 
gled among the guests, shaking each cordially by 
the hand ; they knew him now, returned the grasp, 
and smiled. 

" And who are you, sir ?" demanded Azib of the 
stranger, " who appear so intimate with my friends." 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 183 

" That is of little moment now," he replied, with 
a sneer, " as it is improbable that I shall ever cross 
your threshold again." 

" Unmask, that I may see your face." 
" As you please. I have no longer any reason to 
conceal my features, homely as tbey are, since your 
dispensing power is at an end." The mask fell, 
and Azib recoiled from the repulsive object, who 
coolly continued: "Well, I perceive you do not 
admire my appearance. If you wish never to see 
me again, there is but one way by which you ean 
avoid my intrusion." 

" Name it ; anything to escape your presence." 
"It is simply this — never confer a benefit on 
your fellow-man, and henceforth I shall not trouble 

you." 

" But who are you ? Answer me." 

" The paymaster of your many friends." 

" Your name ?" 

"Ingratitude." Saying which, he joined the 
other guests, and they hurried away to lighter- 
hearted companions, for it was too painful for their 
delicate feelings to behold a benefactor in adversity. 

Azib was now alone ; no one to condole with or 
encourage him. His first reflections were bitter, 



184 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 



but lie soon tore from liis bosom tlie serpents tbat 
were coiling within liim. He exclaimed : 

" Never confer a benefit on my fellow-man ! — 
Shall I not hand a crutch to the cripple, lest, when 
strengthened, he turn it as a weapon against me ? 
Shall I not give bread to the famished, for fear his 
fangs may wound the hand that feeds him ? Death 
were better than life, deprived of the power of doing 
good and of forgiving injury. And how dare man 
repine at ingratitude, since it is the most common 
vice of his nature, and daily manifested towards his 
God. All the good bestowed upon him in this 
world is overlooked, until he finds it necessary to 
pray for greater in the world to come. The true 
man never repines at his own afllictions, when he 
reflects upon the suffering that the ingratitude of 
the universe hurls back to the fountain of benefi- 
cence. May my heart cease to beat when it has no 
room for benevolence towards man and gratitude to 
God." 

A mendicant now entered the deserted hall of 
Azib, and asked for food. The master of the feast 
placed the beggar at his board, and with his own 
hands served him with the best. 

" You appear dejected," said the mendicant. 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 185 

"For a time only," replied Azib; "the darkest 
night must soon give place to morning, and the sun 
will shine forth again." 

" True, but where will his rays fall to give light 
and life ? Even the sun rejoices in the lofty and 
proud places, but leaves the obscure valleys shiver- 
ing in darkness. Although the shades of night 
have already taken possession of yon mountain's 
base, ascend, and you will still find the golden glo- 
ries of the setting sun encircling its brow, proud to 
pay homage. A few short living rays of his cheer- 
ing influence would make the valleys smile with 
gratitude, but they are withheld." 

" Man imitates the example of the sun," replied 
Azib; "for even the sun himself may rise gor- 
geously, but let him set in clouds and tempest, and 
the splendor of the morn will be forgotten until he 
shines forth again." 

The mendicant, refreshed, pursued his journey. 
Azib's career was one of struggle, without friends 
or relatives to aid or encourage him. They had 
little else to bestow than reproof for having lost 
what he once possessed. Still he was happy, and 
daily returned thanks for the little his efforts yielded. 

Years passed, and again the mendicant called at 



18Q AaiB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

the now humble dwelling of Azib, and asked for 
food and shelter. Both were bestowed as freely as 
when he was entertained in a palace. AYhen the old 
man was refreshed, Azib discovered, for the first 
time, that a singularly beautiful companion, in the 
vigor of youth accompanied him. 

" You have a companion, I perceive ; will he not 
feed also." 

" He fed as I fed. You see he is refreshed, and 
smiles cheerfully." 

" His features are your own, though brighter. — 
Who is he?" 

" The first-born of my soul." 

" Your first-born ! You are aged and apparently 
worn down with a long life of care, while he is still 
in the vigor of boyhood. How can that be ?" 

*' His beauty can never fade, and he can never 
grow old, for he has little to do in this world ; while 
my daily trials have left their wrinkled record on my 
brow, and furrowed channels in my cheeks for tears." 

"His name?" 

'* Gratitude. He and myself will never leave 
you ; for on a former occasion, you gave us an invi- 
tation to stay with you through life, and we are 
here." 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 1S7 

" I Tinderstand you not ! Invite yon for life ! I 
am poor ; still you are welcome." 

" Eemember your words when in deep affliction 
— 'May my heart cease to beat when it has no 
room for benevolence towards man and gratitude 
to God.'" 

" Still, I know you not." 

" Yet I have been the inmate of your heart from 
its first pulsation. Man boasts of his wisdom, even 
while blindly ignorant of that which dwells within 
him ! At my birth I was called Benevolence. — 
My life has been most active ; incessantly required 
to perform the most arduous duties ; and where I 
most expected the cheering approbation of my son, 
he has withheld the light of his countenance. He is 
a wayward boy, though he doats on his father ; and 
my fondness for him is such, that at times I am sick 
even to death at his long absence." 

From that day Azib and his guests dwelt together, 
and their wealth increased, until, from the position 
of an humble dealer, Azib became the wealthiest 
merchant in Bagdad. Then his kindred, from the 
nearest of blood to the most remote, flocked around 
him, open-mouthed in praise of his sagacity; cla- 
morous in asking his advice, and in the same breath 



188 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

his assistance. His friends were now so nnmerons 
that lie could not name them ; they were once so 
few that he labored under a similar difficulty. His 
coffers were constantly open, and old Benevolence^ 
who was the cash-keeper, industriously scattered the 
contents with a self-satisfied and idiotic smile. — 
Gratitude, at times, would look exceedingly blank, 
and remark — 

" Father, with all due appreciation for the purity 
of your motives, may the Prophet pardon me, when 
I most respectfully suggest, sir, that I consider you 
a consummate old fool." 

" Son," replied the old man, with becoming dig- 
nity, " I care not a fig for what you think. True, 
I do a great many foolish things which you never 
mention; but if I were to await your slow-paced 
sanction, before I perform my duty, my office would 
be a sinecure." Saying which, he thrust his hands 
into the coffers, and scattering the gold broadcast, 
exclaimed, with an air of importance — "There, 
take an account of that, you idle scamp. There, 
there ; I will find you employment." 

" You will never hear of a sequen of it from me, 
father. It will be picked up by those who use my 
name most familiarly, protesting that I am never 



AZIB AND HIS PRIENDS. 189 

absent from them, thougli they never beheld me, and 
care not a rush for me." 

Azib overheard them. He smiled somewhat 
sadly, while raising his hand towards heaven, but 
it fell upon the old man's bead, and he patted it 
fondly. Gratitude raised the uplifted hand to point 
above, his face all radiant as the morning sun — 
** There, there !" he cried. 

" Eight, right, my child !" exclaimed Benevolence. 
" There, there alone. He gave us all ; and no one 
but you can teach us to deserve it." Gratitude fell 
upon the neck of Azib, and a copious flood of tears 
bedewed his bosom, and the old man chuckled, as a 
father, in his second childhood, would over a re- 
claimed son, and he scattered from the abundance 
before him as if it were but child's play, and he had 
escaped from leading-strings thrown around him by 
his favorite child. 

Azib died, and, of course, was followed to the 
grave by an extended retinue. " Man is a noble 
animal; splendid in ashes, and pompous in the 
grave ; solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal 
lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of bravery in the 
infamy of his nature." After the funeral came a 
feast which was more speedly buried than poor 



IGO AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Azib, for there is nothing like grief for whetting the 
appetite for a funeral festival. "When gorged to 
the gullet, some thought it appropriate to commend 
the virtues of the departed, to which his immediate 
heirs yielded a cold assent, tempered bj a censure 
for his misplaced extravagance. With prudence, 
he would have died more wealthy. 

The man in the mask was present, for he is ever 
in the house of mourning when it becomes the house 
of feasting. " man, thou fool !" he exclaimed, 
"he who would die deplored should die poor, 
leaving idle ingrates dependent on his labor for 
their bread and shelter. Hunger will make them 
mourn without the aid of hypocritical tears. But 
die wealthy, and your heirs will make a merry 
feast, and dance on your grave before the grass is 
green; and if perchance they revert to your 
memory, it is but to deplore that on some particular 
occasion you failed to increase their inheritance." 

The day appointed for reading the will arrived. — 
All again assembled, more serious than at his 
funeral. No will was found; and then the heirs, 
in disputing about their individual rights, became 
as clamorous as crows dissecting carrion. They 
thought little of the living Azib, who was pure 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 191 

gold, but very mucli of tlie dross he liad left in 
passing throngli the fiery furnaces of this world. 
All were now disposed to gather up the fragments 
of the eaten feast, and see that nothing was lost, 
though no one had a scrap to throw npon the same 
board, when famine shrieked there. 

"When the contest was at its height, old Benevo- 
lence drew a paper from his bosom, and applying 
the thumb of his dexter hand to the termination of 
his nasal organ, at the same time vibrating signifi- 
cantly the extended digits, coolly and emphatically 
exclaimed, in pure Arabic, " You can't come it, no 
how you can fix it. Here is his will ; I am his sole 
heir ; and what is better, his executor also !" A half- 
suppressed chuckle shook his old frame, and a sar- 
donic twinkle danced in his eyes, which, however, 
no sooner beamed, than it was quenched by a tear 
of pity for their disappointment. The man in the 
mask meandered gracefully through the assemblage, 
bestowing upon each a fashionable salutation of 
condolence, then clapped his hands as if he were the 
floor manager of a modern menagerie ball, cried 
aloud, "choose your partners!" then, with a har- 
lequin leap — stampede in uno, he extended his dex- 
ter pedestal, which vibrated as if touched with St. 



19^ AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Vitus' dance, wliicli exhibition was succeeded by an 
unparalleled number of pirouettes. After this, lie 
contorted bis attenuated figure into all sorts of angles 
and curves, as if he were resolving a problem in 
Euclid by ocular demonstration ; be significantly 
snapped bis thumb and finger, as much as to say — 
" Azib be hanged ! Promenade ! Forward two ! — 
Go it you cripples I" He led the way to the grace- 
ful measure of an expressive dance, now familiarly 
known to all enlightened nations by the euphonical 
title of the polka. The heirs silently dropped into 
the retinue, two by two ; but their movements were 
by no means as nimble and hilarious as when they 
followed Azib to the grave. Kow Gratitude came 
in to see how the fortune would be disposed of by 
the old man, whose youth seemed to be renewed by 
his inheritance. 

They walked through the streets of Bagdad hand 
in hand, in search of the feeble and the oppressed ; 
such as adversity had rendered so unsightly, as to 
curdle the milk of humanity in the breast of charity. 
His pensioners consisted principally of destitute and 
care-worn old women, with scarce sufficient strength 
to bear them to the grave. His presence, however, 
renewed the flickering lamp of life, and his atten- 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 193 

tions became so marked, tliat his son, in alarm, ex- 
postulated against his imprudence. 

" Old gentleman," he said, " allow me to intimate 
that your motives are misunderstood ; that you are 
losing caste daily, and what is worse, the old ladies 
are looked upon with a suspicious eye. Consider 
their reputation." 

" Eeputation ! Fudge ! They need not be alarmed 
about that. No one will take it from them, for 
there is nothing to be made out of it. It is of no 
use to any one but the owner, and frequently of 
very little use to him. If it were worth a fig, they 
would have been robbed of it lono^ ao^o." 

" You are called an old reprobate !" 

" What do I care for that ? But reproof comes 
with an ill grace from you, for already you have 
made a deeper impression on the old ladies' hearts, 
than all that I have done." 

"Father, that is true; I confess that, as you 
opened the door, I quietly crept in." 

"Then oblige me by quietly creeping out again, 
for I have all my life been trying to get absolute 
possession of an old woman's heart, without success, 
for, I assure you, it is no small undertaking. If you 
want a job, see what impression you can make upon 



194 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 

the hearts of the young and beautiful ; leave the old 
and tough to me." 

"I would rather break stone in the streets of 
Bagdad. Vanity can find an easy entrance there, 
and rich entertainment ; while I too frequently, after 
snapping, with patience, the iron-bound barriers, 
have found myself famished in an empty citadel, 
from which I was speedily ejected by vanity and 
affectation. I am perfectly at home in the hearts of 
your poor pensioners, and as you do not expect me 
to work hard there, I will take my repose in their 
bosoms." 

" Then let us finish the work we have in hand." 

Gratitude followed the footsteps of Benevolence 
OS he performed the labors of love, and the recipients 
of his bounty became so enamoured with the heav- 
enly smile of Gratitude, that finally their shrivelled 
features were moulded into the beauty and freshness 
of his own. The work progressed until they had 
fashioned from the refuse of mortality, immortals, 
more bright and beautiful than the houries that 
revel in the imaginary paradise of Mahomet. 

" The work is done !" cried Gratitude, " but father, 
you have been extravagant, in your day." 

" True ; but one smile of yours always repays me 



AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 195 

tenfold, and witliont that smile, we could never have 
revivified our old women into angels. Thej loved 
you, boy, in their dotage. But you seem restive. 
Where are going now?" 

" To carry our work home, and render an account 
of your stewardship. There, there, to the place from 
whence we came." 

" But when shall we meet again ?" 

" As soon as you find another Azib who will en- 
trust you with the disposal of his fortune ; for until 
then, you will have but little employment for me on 
earth." 

Benevolence, now destitute and alone, pursued a 
thankless labor, until his countenance became so 
care-worn and repulsive that even the scalding tears 
he shed for the unfortunate were rejected, for they 
seemed to be forced from an iron heart, to bedew a 
channel in the haggard features of misanthropy. — 
" Alas I" he sighed, " with Azib's wealth I was wel- 
comed by all — from the pauper to the prince ; — but 
unassisted, my test wishes are flowerless and fruit- 
less ; they cannot call forth even a smile from Grati- 
tude." 



196 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 



MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 



"Call no man happy 'till you l<now the nature of his death ; he is at best but 
fortunate."-— Solon to Cresds. 

Time eats tlie cliildren lie begets, and tlie memo- 
ries of few men outlive their monuments; nay, 
myriads pass into oblivion even before the elements 
tave sullied their epitaph. My uncle Nicholas, 
notwithstanding his deserts, has not escaped this 
order of things. I knew him in the April of my 
years — the flower-time of my life ; and as my mind 
reverts to those sunny days, the first object it rests 
■apon is the beloved image of my uncle Nicholas. 

He was a placid being, overflowing with the best 
of humanities. His heart and his doors were open 
to all his fellow beings, and there was not a creature 
endued with animal life, towards which he did not 
studiously avoid giving pain. His dogs loved him, 
and he could not walk abroad into his fields but his 
cattle followed him, and fed out of his hand. 

" He was a scholar, a ripe and a good one," at 



MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 197 

least I viewed him as such in my boyhood. His 
mind was stored with good learning, but his favorite 
companions were those hearty old poets who have 
retained their freshness for centuries, and who 
possess a re-productive faculty that will make them 
blossom through succeeding ages. "With what de- 
light would he pore over the harmonious numbers 
of Spencer, and Drayton, and Drummond, and the 
vigorous dramatists of those times ! and there was 
scarcely a gem of the minor poets that he had not 
culled to grace his memory. These he would recite 
with all the feeling and enthusiasm of early life, and 
at times I imagined they were golden links that 
inseparably bound him to his boyhood. They 
appeared to possess the faculty of making him 
young again. 

He was a quiet humorist, but with no more gall 
than might be found in a dove. His face was ever 
mantling with some pleasant thought, and his mind 
flowed on as gently as a secret brook, that ever and 
anon dimples and smiles at its own babbling. 

He was married, and my aunt was one of the 
gentlest of creatures. You might have searched 
the world without finding a pair whose hearts and 
minds so perfectly harmonized. She was a deli- 



198 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 

cately attuned instrument, ever breatliing tlie softest 
music; never depressed to sadness, and seldom 
exhilerated beyond a placid smile. If perchance 
slie laughed, it was at some jest of mj uncle 
Nicholas; not that it excited her risible faculties, 
but that she perceived by the mantling of his 
countenance there was more intended than came 
within the scope of her apprehension; and she 
would laugh outright that he might more fully 
enjoy the freak of his imagination. How they 
loved each other ! 

My uncle dwelt on a farm on the outskirts of a 
village. He had selected it as a residence in early 
life, and had lived long enough to see the primitive 
settlement assume something like a name on the 
map of his country. He was identified with the 
spot ; all the villagers in a measure looked upon 
him as a patriarch, and even the children would 
break off their amusements to salute him as he 
passed ; and he ever had a kind word and a jest to 
bestow upon the humblest of the little troglodytes. 
They all called him uncle Nicholas, and he was so 
kind to them, that many grew up in the belief that 
he was actually the uncle of the whole village. 

His residence was a delightful spot. His farm 



MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 199 

was well cultivated, and his buildings, while they 
afforded every comfort, were not so ostentatious as 
to awaken the envy of his less prosperous neigh- 
bors. A river flowed beside it, and in the rear 
were shady walks of sugar maple, to which the 
villagers would resort of a summer afternoon for 
recreation, and few would fail in returning to stop at 
my uncle's cottage and partake of the hospitality of 
his board. Indeed he and his were looked upon as 
common property. 

At these social gatherings, all the belles of the 
village would rival each other to secure my uncle's 
attention. He was ever the gayest among the gay, 
while his gentle manners and playful fancy minis- 
tered to the delight of all ; and it was amusing to 
behold the quiet complacency of my aunt as she 
gazed on his little gallantries, and to watch her 
countenance gradually light up, as her mind would 
pass from the scene before her, to the halcyon days 
when he wooed and won her, and then she would 
turn to her next neighbor and whisper in a tone 
mingled with pride and fondness, "You see his 
winning ways have not yet left him." And then 
she would smile and look on in silence, as if life 



200 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 

could afford no delight like gazing on mj uncle 
Nicholas, when he was happy. 

Happy ! — The heavens themselves are never so 
bright and clear, but that a cloud overshadows 
some portion, and there lives not that man whose 
mind is so free, but that at some period a phantom 
pursues it, from which he fears escape is impossible. 
My uncle's phantom was the dread of poverty. He 
had lived generously and from his habits and tone 
of mind was ill calculated to increase his posses- 
sions. As he advanced in life he perceived that his 
property had imperceptibly wasted away ; and to 
increase his terrors, there was a lawsuit against him 
that had been pending many years. He dreaded 
its termination would result in ruin, though con- 
vinced that justice was on his side ; but the boosted 
trial by jury is by no means as infallible, as 
its ' encomiasts pretend, for it is a difficult matter 
for one man who does not understand his case 
to explain to twelve who frequently are in- 
capable of comprehending the matter under any 
circumstances. And by this frail tenure do we 
cling to our possession of liberty and life. The 
sword of Damocles is a type of the trial by jury. 

It was a melancholy sight to behold the old 



MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 201 

gentleman, term after term, attending court to learn 
the issue of his cause. It absorbed all his faculties 
and sapped the very foundation of his mind. He 
was wont to have a word and a cheerful smile 
for all he met, but now he would pass his next 
neighbor, without token of recognition. His little 
friends, the children, no longer followed him. His 
favorite volumes remained undusted on the shelves 
— their charm had passed away, and those vernal 
fancies, that were wont to make his heart like a 
singing bird in spring, had died and it sung no 
more. 

He would at times struggle to disengage his mind 
from the phantom that embraced it with iron 
clutches, and affect more cheerfulness in the 
presence of my aunt, for he perceived that his 
melancholy was contagious. How tenderly she 
watched over him, and soothed him and encouraged 
him! God bless her! — At one of those tender 
interviews which were frequent, he appeared sud- 
denly animated with hope — the world was open to 
him — he was a man and could labor like other 
men — his countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, 
exultingly : 

•' The spider taketh hold with her hands and is 



202 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 

in king's palaces." — He fondly looked into the 
recess of his wife's heart through her glistening 
eyes, and continued. " The ants are a people not 
strong." — He paused, and finished the proverb in a 
tone scarcely audible, — "yet they prepare their 
meat in the summer. — Alas ! the snows of many 
winters are on my head." — A tear dropped from his 
eye on the pale forehead of the partner of his 
bosom. She consoled him no more that day. 

He had contracted various small debts with the 
tradesmen of the village, among whom were some 
new-comers who had not known him in his palmy 
days. And even if they had, the chances are that 
it would not have altered their conduct towards him. 
Few men make an asgis of the past to shield them 
from present evils. True, he has been as liberal as 
the sun that shines on all alike without distinction 
but how soon do we forget the splendor of yester- 
day, if the sun rise in clouds to-morrow. 

His creditors became impatient, and though there 
was some hesitation in taking out the first execution, 
yet that being done, others followed as regularly as 
links of the same chain. There was a time when he 
felt as confident and secure among the villagers as 
in the bosom of his own family ; but now there was 



MY UNCLE NICnOLAS. 203 

no longer safety for the sole of his foot on His lieartli- 
stone. He was humbled, and he moved among his 
neighbors, a broken down man, with fear and trem- 
bling, dreading all whom he chanced to meet. 

At length his library was seized upon and sold. 
His books were of no great value to any other than 
himself, but he prized them beyond every thing. 
He had bought them in his boyhood ; to lose 
them was to sever the chain that bound him to 
happier days, and as he beheld them scattered one 
by one, he wept as if they had been things of life 
that had abandoned him in his misfortunes. 

It was a melancholy sight to behold him after this 
event, seated in his study, gazing on the empty 
shelves, and repeating various choice passages from 
his favorite volumes. I witnessed him once, 
looking intently on the vacant spot where a fine 
old copy of Herrick's poems had stood for near 
half a century. I knew the place well, for at that 
time it was my delight to delve for the pure ore of 
that " very best of English lyric poets." A melan- 
choly smile came over his bland countenance, and 
he repeated, in a low tremulous voice : 



204 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 

Call me no more, 
As heretofore, 

The music of the feast; 
Since now alas I 
The mirth that was 

In me, is dead or ceased. 

Before I went 
To banishment 

Into the loathed west ; 
I could rehearse 
A lyric verse 

And speak it with the best 

But time, ah me ! 
Has laid, I see, 

My organ fast asleep ; 
And turn'd my voice 
Into the noise 

Of those that sit and weep. 

His eyes slowly moved along tlie empty shelves 
until they rested upon a place that had been occu- 
pied by a collection of the old dramatists. He 
smiled, though he shed tears, 

" Beshrew me, but thy song hath moved me." I 
turned from the window through which I was 
gazing, unperceived, and left him breathing frag- 
ment upon fragment. 



MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 205 

, My uncle was accustomed to rise with tlie sun, 
and continued his habit to the last. But he no 
longer enjoyed the songs of the birds, the babbling 
of the waterfall, nor the fresh breeze of the morning 
laden with fragrance — their influence had departed 
from them ; still he adhered to his custom, and 
would wander from his green meadows to the maple 
grove and from the grove to the river, as if in 
pursuit of something — he knew not what. On his 
return, his usual remark was, "Is it not strange 
that the flowers should have lost their fragrance, 
and the little birds their skill in singing?" In 
happier days how he would praise the flowers and 
the birds ! 

As term-time approached, his malady ever in- 
creased. His morning meal would scarcely be over 
when he would adjust his dress, and call for his hat 
and cane, and on being asked whither he was 
going, he would invariably reply, " To the village 
to see my friends. Of late they have ceased to come 
here, and it is right that I should see them." He 
would for hours walk from one end of the village 
to the other, and bow to all who accosted him, yet 
pause to converse with none ; and on his return, 
when my good aunt would inquire whether he had 



206 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 

seen his friends, tlie constant reply was, "N'o, I 
liave fallen in with none of them." Alas ! my poor 
nncle, how thy brain must have been shattered to 
imagine that a man in adversity can ever find his 
friends ! 

At length the dreaded day arrived — ^his cause 
was marked for trial, and in a few hours the result 
would be known. The matter in dispute was not 
of such a great moment, but he had brooded over 
it imtil his fears had magnified it to vital impor- 
tance. His opponent was a course and brutal man, 
and in their protracted contest, the abruptness of 
his demeanor had awakened whatever latent asperity 
had found a hiding place in my uncle's bosom. He 
looked upon that cause, trifling as it was, as the 
most important matter of his life. His daily 
thoughts and irritated feeling had magnified it. 
Even the little ant by constant application can 
create a mound altogether disproportionate to its 
size, and there is not a column so beautiful that 
may not be defaced by the trail of a slimy snail. 
My poor uncle feared the ant-hill and recoiled at 
the filth of the worm. 

The morning his cause was to be tried, he dressed 
himself with unusual care, and my aunt, knowing 



MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 207 

the bent of his mind, exercised all her little appli- 
ances to encourage him. He went to the court 
house, and took his seat, a dejected man. He 
looked around as if in search of some one to sit 
beside him to aid and sustain him, but none such 
were present, and he sat alone. 

The cause was called, the jury empanelled, and 
the investigation proceeded. Every question that 
arose in its progress, wrought up my uncle's mind 
to painful intensities. In the ardor of his feelings 
he at times interrupted the proceedings, and was 
rudely ordered by the court to sit down and be silent. 
He obeyed, while every fibre of his frame shook 
with passion, and offended pride. His opponent 
smiled in triumph as he beheld his confusion. He 
sat alone ; no one approached to sympathize with 
him, and he felt as if deserted by all. In conse- 
quence of the distracted state of his mind, his 
defence, though a just one, had been imperfectly 
made out. Facts had escaped his memory; papers 
were missing that should have been produced, and 
the result was, the j ary returned a verdict against 
him without leaving the box. It fell like a 
thunderbolt upon him; he fancied the last busi- 
ness of his life was over, and in the triumph of the 



208 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 

moment, his adversary taunted him, and openly 
charged him with dishonesty. The old man rose 
to repel the insult, while every limb shook with 
passion as if palsy-struck. All was confusion. 
The judges interferred to preserve order. My 
uncle heard them not. He was commanded to sit 
down, but still persisted to vindicate his character. 
A second — a third time was he called upon to sit 
down and be silent, which awakened him to a 
sense of his position. He beheld his antagonist 
still smiling ; he slowly sunk into his seat, and as 
if abashed, his head hung over his bosom, and 
gradually descended until it rested on the desk 
before him. Order was again restored, and the 
court proceeded in its business. A few moments 
after, some one approached my uncle, and on 
raising him, he was found to be dead ! 

Thus died that good old man. There was a time 
when I looked upon him being secure from the 
shafts of fate ; but who may boast of to-morrow ! 
He was wealthy, had health and friends, and his 
gentle spirit made his home a paradise. His sources 
of enjoyment were boundless, for all nature, from 
her sublimest mysteries, even down to the petals of 
a simple flower was one mighty minister, and he 



MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 209 

drew wisdom and delight from all. And yet a 
single cloud was magnified until it overshadowed 
his heaven of happiness, and he died friendless and 
heartbroken, all had vanished that made earth 
beautiful. But is this strange ? — The flowers of life 
pass away as the flowers of the seasons, without 
our being conscious of the cause of their decay, and 
there breathes not that man, however prosperous, 
but like my poor uncle, hath his phantom, and in 
time, discovers that " even in laughter the heart is 
sorrowful and the end of that mirth is heaviness." 



14 



210 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 



" On Horror's head horrors accumulate." 

Some are enamoured of the graceful movements 
of a horse, others of a painted, dancmg gipsy ; some 
pass their lives in examining the petal of a flower, 
or the brilliancy of a bug — some disregard the earth 
and read the heavens, while others find nothing half 
so beautiful in all creation as a well-cooked terrapin 
or partridge pie. Dydimus Dumps belonged to 
neither of these varieties — he eschewed the beauti- 
ful ; his taste was for the horrible. 

The parentage, education and pursuits of Dydi- 
mus tended to develop this prominent feature in his 
character. His father was a little, consumptive 
tailor, who was obliged to ply his needle incessantly 
for cabbage, and as tailors are proverbially melan- 
cholic, his hard fate, acting on his temperament, 
according to the settled laws of Gall and Spurzheim, 
rendered him as solemn and mysterious as a tomb- 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 211 

Stone without an epitaph. Subsequently he turned 
to exhorting in the conventicle, which increased the 
longitude and acerbity of his meagre visage, and 
also the sonorous bass of his deep-toned nasal organ. 
Spirit of Slawkenberges ! with such a second, you 
might have deceived the dry bones of the valley 
with the belief that the diapason of universal nature 
had been rudely set in motion, and that it was time 
to come forth and attune their pipes to concert 
pitch. 

His favorite text was the transgression of mother 
Eve, against whom he declaimed unmercifully, not 
so much on account of her having brought sin and 
death into the world, but that for her curiosity he 
never would have been condemned to the unappre- 
ciated and indispensable vocation of finishing man's 
god-like form in such a fashion as to appear in de- 
cent society. Pure nature shrinks abashed when 
castigated by conventional rules. A babe denuded 
of its swaddling clothes may not cut its caprioles 
on a Brussels' carpet, without awakening spasmodic 
delicacy in the painted face of factitious modesty, 
that never blushed in the dark. 

The mother of our hero was a layer out of the 
dead, and from her calling she imagined herself a 



212 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

sort of connecting link between this world and the 
next — a hyphen between time and eternity. Dydi- 
mus, in early childhood, attended her on these solemn 
missions, and he claimed it as a prescriptive right to 
officiate as chief-mourner in all fashionable funeral 
processions. It was flattering to his juvenile ambi- 
tion, and that his grief might be rendered the more 
impressive, his considerate mother invariably har- 
nessed him in the longest weeds and weepers, and 
the best black silk gloves that the bereaved relatives 
had furnished to make a public demonstration of 
their secret sorrow. Such was the serious cast of 
his mind in his early years, that he despised the 
restraint of the ordinary system of education, and 
actually made considerable progress in the alphabet 
by conning over the epitaphs on the tomb-stones, and 
ultimately acquired as much knowledge of the dead 
languages as most collegians with the appendix of 
A. M., LL. D., and A. S. S. to their otherwise insig- 
nificant names. 

Many years ago I knew Dydimus intimately. He 
was at that time a middle aged and independent 
man, having come into possession of the wholesome 
accretions of his prudent and watchful mother. He 
was fond of relating narratives of barbarity, whether 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 213 

fact or fiction, it was immaterial, for he believed all 
he saw in print, and as I was a patient listener — the 
most gratifying compliment that can be paid to all 
old women of either sex — it afforded him infinite 
pleasure to bestow all his tediousness upon me. His 
library was limited — " better have a few volumes," 
said he, " and digest them well, than, as some pre- 
tenders to literature, make a large collection without 
reading beyond the labels." His library consisted of 
" The Life and Death of Cock-Robin," with colored 
sculptures — his mother's first present — which time 
had already rendered exceedingly valuable, for there 
was no other copy of the same edition extant ; 
Fox's Book of Martyrs, horribly illustrated; the 
Buccaneers of America, and a History of the Span- 
ish Inquisition. His walls were adorned with pic- 
tures in keeping — one of which he highly prized for 
its antiquity and truth of design. It was the sacri- 
fice of Isaac, taken from a Dutch bible, published in 
an age when they weather-boarded books, and put 
iron clasps upon them, anticipating Locke on the 
Human Understanding — which illustration of that 
most solemn and impressive narrative, represented 
the agonized, yet obedient parent, with a huge 
blunderbuss presented at the breast of his innocent 



214 , DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

and unresisting offspring, while an angel, propor- 
tioned and appareled like a well-fed Amsterdam 
belle, seated aloft on a cloud resembling a feather- 
bed, dropped tears as big as hail-stones in the pan 
of the fire-lock, while Abraham was in the act of 
pulling the trigger. 

Poets and painters in all ages excite a shudder or 
a smile by their feeble attempts to bring within our 
perceptive faculties sublime mysteries over which 
an impenetrable veil is drawn, yet which the intel- 
ligent mind feels and understands without the assist- 
ance of corporeal agency. The seminal ideas were 
implanted at our birth, they grow with our growth, 
and imperceptibly produce their fruit without the 
light and heat of external sunshine. How vague 
are the ideas we entertain of the personal appear- 
ance of the angels ! Enthusiasts of all nations, arro- 
gantly people the celestial scenery with the female 
beauty of their own time and clime ; and the poetic 
creation of the Venus de Medici — the softened 
lineaments of Lucrece Borgia, have been used as 
the archetypes of the female personages in altar- 
pieces, before which the purest in heart and the 
strongest in brain bow with reverence. The coun- 
tenance and the drapery of angels depend upon the 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 215 

fashion of the age in which the artist lived, and the 
nation to which he belonged. Michael Angelo's 
angels are not those of a modern Italian or a French- 
man — in the age of Elizabeth of England, a high- 
starched ruff and hooped petticoat were angelic, be- 
cause they concealed that which would have ren- 
dered the saint equivocal — some artists fancy fat 
angels and others lean, and a Flemish painter of the 
old school would indignantly reject such angels as 
they fashion in China or Hindostan, as unworthy of 
a place in the general exhibition. Even Mahomet's 
houries will have a hard scratch to hold their own, 
when the curtain is raised, and myriads of long-for- 
gotten nations — the progeny of orbs unknown to 
earth — denuded of the costume of time and station, 
stand forth to be tried by the impartial and immu- 
table test of universal beauty. 

But I am losing sight of Mr. Dumps. His regi- 
men was somewhat remarkable. His organ of ali- 
mentiveness was largely developed, and his tempera- 
ment was what phrenologists would pronounce the 
bilious melancholic, combined with the nervous, and 
a sprinkle of the lymphatic. This is all Hebrew- 
Greek to me, but doubtless is correct, for he was an 
extraordinary man, and richly entitled to all the 



216 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

temperaments referred to bj Gall and Spurzheim. 
He supped every niglit on clam fritters, hard-boiled 
eggs, pickled sturgeon, and raw cabbage, all of which 
he washed down with an unconstitutional quantity 
of muddy beer, that he might more fully enjoy the 
fantastic and horrible caprioles of the night-mare. 
The profound gravity with which he would attack 
his nightly repast, would have inspired Apicius with 
veneration for his gastronomic abilities. 

One morning he called upon me, and appearing 
more dejected than usual, I inquired the cause — he 
replied : 

" I have exhausted all the places of rational 
amusement in the city, wax-works, puppet-shows, 
and all. I finally purchased a season-ticket of ad- 
mission to that meritorious institution called the 
Washington Museum, esteemed as the only exhibi- 
tion that could awaken the sensibilities of a deli- 
cately attuned and cultivated mind. But I have 
gazed so long upon the headless trunk of poor Marie 
Antoinette, the dying Hamilton, Moreau, and many 
others — including the emaciated Baron Trenck, 
peeping through the bars of his cage, like Sterne's 
starling, that they have lost their pungency. The 
fountain of tears is exhausted, and I am most mise- 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 217 

rably cheerful. I feel no more pleasure in contem- 
plating the jealous Moor in the act of stabbing his 
sleeping Desclemona, or Queen Dido preparing to 
hang herself in her garters, than I do in beholding 
those immortal worthies, Washington and Franklin, 
placidly seeming to read unutterable things illegibly 
scrawled upon a piece of dirty parchment, or the 
portly William Penn, in the attitude of leading out 
a fair Quakeress to a country-dance. Nay, you will 
scarcely credit it, but it is a melancholy fact — I 
have become so accustomed to the horrible discord 
of that eternal organ-grinder, who silenced and put 
the starved treble of fish-wenches out of counte- 
nance, that it no longer creates any titillation on my 
tympanum, but sounds as melodiously as the music 
of the spheres. I am in absolute despair ! What 
shall I do?" 

" You are a bachelor, and rich. Get married." 
" That would be horrible, indeed ; but then it lasts 
for life. I wish variety ; a monotony of horror 
would pall upon the palate." 

Yet Dydimus was a kind-hearted man. His bene- 
factions were liberally bestowed. His pensioners 
were comprised of the lame, blind and destitute, 
whom he visited systematically to drop his unseen 



218 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

charity, and tliougli he could not minister to their 
minds by cheerful converse, he never failed to 
awaken them to a keen sense of their forlorn con- 
dition by his tears of sympathy. 

" What's to be done !" continued Dydimus. " This 
dearth of excitement will drive me to do something 
terrible." 

" Do you never go to the theatre ?" 

"When Cooke was here, I went, but seldom since." 

" Go now, and you will find the exhibitions most 
truly awful." 

" Say you so ? You cheer me," he exclaimed, 
leisurely rubbing his hands and smiling like a caput 
mortuum. " Pray inform me what sort of shows 
do they exhibit to gratify a cultivated taste?" 

" I see it announced that Mr. Stoker will hang 
himself for the first time, at the circus, this evening, 
for the edification of an enlightened public." 

" Hang himself ! That indeed approximates my 
ideas of the interesting. But is there no humbug 
about it ? I despise humbug." 

" I am assured that it falls little short of a bona 
fide hanging, and that the exhibition is really delight- 
ful to those who take pleasure in witnessing execu- 
tions of the sort." 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 219 

" I never saw a man hanged in all my life, and as 
it is probable I never shall, I would not neglect this 
opportunity of having my ideas enlarged as to the 
manner of performing this interesting branch of 
jurisprudence. Will you accompany ?" 

" With pleasure, as they only hang in jest." 

" The real thing must be exciting !" 

" Doubtless, and more especially to the principal 
performer." 

We accordingly repaired to the circus at an early 
hour, and took our seats as soon as the doors were 
open. Dydimus was impatient until the horseman- 
ship commenced, but as the equestrians performed 
their feats with so much self-possession, he soon 
became wearied with the monotony of the exhibi- 
tion, and emphatically pronounced it to be a popular 
humbug. At length an artist appeared in the arena, 
mounted without saddle or bridle, who rode like a 
lunatic flying from his keepers, who had out- voted 
him on the score of sanity — throwing himself into 
all perilous attitudes upon his untamed Bucephalus. 

"Ha! ha!" exclaimed Dydimus, "this is reality! 
What was Geoffrey Gambado or the Macedonian 
compared to him! The progress of the human 
faculties toward perfection is wonderful. A few 



220 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

riding-masters of tliat description would soon send 
harness-makers to the region where the son of Philip 
no longer obstructs the sunshine of Diogenes. He 
may have conquered a world, but he would not 
make salt to his porridge if he were a circus-rider in 
the present age of improvement. A fig for the 
ancients and their Olympic games." 

Mr. Dumps expected every moment to behold 
the daring rider's brains dashed out, but to his great 
astonishment, not to say disappointment, the agile 
equestrian invariably regained his equilibrium when 
apparently in the most perilous position. The 
anxiety and all absorbing interest awakened in the 
mind of Dydimus, became apparent by the contor- 
tions of his countenance, and the gyrations of his 
nervous system. A lad seated beside him, who was 
" native and to the manner born," and who for some 
time had watched his movements with mischievous 
satisfaction, addressed him in a tone loud enough to 
attract the attention of those around us : 

"Stranger, there's no use in fretting j out innards 
to fiddle-strings ; I know that 'ere covey, and he 
would see the whole house, managers and all, in a 
place unfit to mention, before he would break his 
neck for the amusement of a levy spectator. Eemem- 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 221 

ber we are in the pit, and lie can't afford such a 
show as that for a shilling every day. He will 
break it on his benefit night ; you can go then and 
get the worth of your money, and encourage 
merit." 

This remark excited the risible faculties of those 
who overheard it, and Dydimus, disconcerted and 
looking unutterable things, stammered out : 

" Pshaw ! Fudge ! Do you take me for a green- 
horn ? I know it all to be catch-penny — consum- 
mate humbug — imposture!" 

" You wouldn't have him break his neck for a 
shilling? Posterity, I grant, has never yet done 
anything for us, but then, only think, how could 
posterity possibly get along without that man ? Let 
posterity know that we foster genius and patronize 
the fine arts." 

To escape the impertinence of the boy, Dydimus, 
turning to me, remarked : 

" That equestrian would have been distinguished 

among the Persians. To be a great horseman with 

them was second only to shooting with the bow and 

speaking the truth." 

" The horse-jockeys of the present day differ from 



222 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

those of Persia. Ours draw a mucli longer bow, 
and seldom speak the truth." 

The horsemanship being over, Mr. Stoker made 
his appearance, and as he ascended to the rope, sus- 
pended from the roof of the theatre, Mr. Dumps' 
pulse could not have throbbed more rapidly if he 
had been placed in similar jeopardy. He was all 
eye. The gymnic commenced operations, and when 
at full swing he sprang headlong from his seat — thirty 
feet from the floor. 

"Huzza!" shouted Dumps, starting to his feet. 
" Huzza ! there he goes ! Not a plank between him 
and eternity!" 

There was a spontaneous burst of applause, which 
the showman modestly appropriated to his own 
credit, though Mr. Dumps was entitled to more than 
an equal division of the honor. Fortunately for the 
rope-dancer, though to the chagrin of some of the 
spectators, he had taken the precaution of fastening 
his right leg in a noose attached to the swing, and 
thus he was suspended, head downwards, like Ma- 
homet's coffin, between heaven and earth. He was 
greeted with a more hearty and spontaneous burst 
of applause than Newton received when he illus- 
trated the laws of gravity. But what was Newton 



DTDIMUS DUMPS. 223 

and all his discoveries, in popular estimation, wlien 
brought in juxtaposition with the science of a rope- 
dancer! Mr. Stoker, soon discovering that it was 
an unpleasant position for the blood to circulate 
through the human form divine, that wonderful 
work — " Finxit in effigiem moderantum cuncta de- 
orum" — than he hastened to regain his former 
position, which he effected without even dislocating 
a limb, and recommenced his operations with a self- 
complacencj, which plainly demanded of the spec- 
tators — " Ladies and gentlemen, what do you think 
of me?" 

After various feats of surprising agility, he arrived 
at the acme of the exhibition — the be all and the 
end all — which was to hang himself by the neck. 
It was with difficulty that I could prevent Mr. 
Dumps from making another ridiculous display of 
his excited feelings as he beheld him adjusting the 
noose around that ticklish part of the human frame. 
Having fixed it to his satisfaction, he set his swing 
in motion, and when at the height, he slipped from 
his seat, and to the inexpressible delight of all true 
admirers of the sublime and beautiful, there he was, 
sus. per. col., as natural as life — no fiction, but the 
true thing, hanging dingle dangle. A shriek of 



224 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

horror burst from tlae "uninitiated, but Djdimus, a 
true admirer of the beauties of nature, in tbe ecsta- 
cies of the moment, sprang to his feet, and clapping 
his bony hands, shouted in a sepulchral voice : 

"Beautiful! wonderful! Encore, encore! Do it 
again !" 

" If the rope had broke," suggested the boy seated 
beside Dydimus, " the laws of the land would com- 
pel him to do it again, if it was the real thing and 
no gammon — the people's majesty is not to be trifled 
with on such occasions — but by the laws of the play- 
house, if you are dissatisfied, your only redress is to 
apply to the box-office for the return of your shil- 
ling. You couldn't expect a man to hang himself 
all night to procure the means of getting a breakfast 
in the morning." 

" You be — dashed," exclaimed Dydimus, adopting 
from a sense of decorum a different word from that 
which was uppermost in his thoughts, but the ex- 
pression of his countenance plainly indicated that 
he by no means intended to mollify the asperity of 
his denunciation by the change of a consonant. 

The showman coincided in opinion with the mis- 
chievous persecutor of Mr. Dumps, and accordingly, 
after hanging long enough to satisfy any reasonable 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 225 

spectator, lie manifested his disinclination to termi- 
nate his illustrious career in this ridiculous manner, 
and scrambling up the rope as gracefully as circum- 
stances would admit, he regained a position of com- 
parative security. The breathless suspense that had 
pervaded the theatre during his suspension, was 
succeeded by an unanimous burst of applause, which 
made the sounding-board in the dome vibrate with 
ecstasy, and the hero of the night, having made his 
obeisance with a solemnity becoming the important 
occasion, withdrew from the scene of his triumph, 
as full of the conceit of dignity as Sancho Panza 
when installed governor of Barataria. And this is 
fame." " Sepiterno nominahiturr 

On leaving the circus I inquired of Mr. Dumps 
how he was pleased with the entertainment. 

" It is the very place for me," he replied. " He 
escaped to-night, miraculously, but I shall live to 
see that fellow hanged yet. I shall purchase a sea- 
son ticket to-morrow morning and attend regularly 
until some mischance puts a check to his proud 
ambition." 

" You certainly would not be present at such a 

melancholy occurrence ?" 

" He is bound to be hanged. His death-warrant 
15 



226 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

is already signed and sealed, and there is no reason 
why I should not enjoy the exhibition as well as 
another. If reasons were as plenty as blackberries 
you could not give me one." 

He accordingly purchased a season-ticket, and be- 
came a constant attendant at the circus, in expecta- 
tion of witnessing some appalling accident, but 
after wasting much time in this way, and nothing 
serious occurring, he became dissatisfied, for though 
hanging he admitted to be a very rational amuse- 
ment for a week or so, yet by constant repetition it 
was deprived of its stimulating properties, until it 
dwindled to a mere burlesque upon the impressive 
sublimity of the real thing. 

" I despise humbug," said Dydimus, in conclusion, 
" and shall never again cross the door of a circus." 

Some months after I walked with him along a 
street, when his attention was suddenly arrested by 
an organ-grinder and an immense placard, which 
exhibited, in wood-cuts, humanity more brutal than 
the ravenous animals over which, by the first law, 
man had been placed as the shepherd, and in blood- 
red characters was emblazoned the attractive adver- 
tisement — 

" The Horrors of the Inquisition Illustrated." 



.DYDIMUS DUMPS. 227 

" There is sometliing to be seen here," exclaimed 
Mr. Dumps, " which will enlarge the mind of the 
uninitiated, as regards the progress of humanity and 
Christianity in the civilized world." 

" The quackery of charlatans to aggravate the 
diseased imagination of ignorance, at the moderate 
price of a shilling a dose." 

" You are skeptical, but observe, sir, the illustra- 
tions are said to be by the best artists, and there is 
a full description in print of each particular case — 
and by the best authors. You would not doubt 
what you see in print ?" 

" Certainly not, if printed on hot-pressed vellum, 
with a spacious margin. Swallow the Talmud and 
the Koran, and all the elaborate lucubrations of 
insane philosophers, that repose on the dusty shelves 
of every well selected library, and your cranium 
will soon become a more miscellaneous menagerie 
than nature originally intended to confine within so 
limited a compass ; a sort of rotating kaleidescope, 
where beautiful images have but a momentary exis- 
tence, crumble in giving place to others more attrac- 
tive, and no power on earth can ever reproduce 
them." 

Dydimus paid little attention to my remarks, but 



228 DYDIMUS DUMPS.. 

was intently reading the various placards strewed 
about, like bills of fare, to stimulate a morbid appe- 
tite, wben a man approached and invited him in, at 
the same time assuring him that he could not fail 
being pleased — " As it was the most diabolical exhi- 
bition ever presented to a Christian community." 

" Enough !" he exclaimed, throwing himself into 
the attitude of Hamlet, in his first interview with 
his father's shadow, clad in a coat of mail — which 
incorporeal vestment must unquestionably have been 
reduced to pig-iron, if there was any truth in the 
statement of the ghost as to the temperature of the 
regions whence he had ascended, and the ghost was 
an honest ghost — Truepenny cpuld not lie — "Go 
on," said Dydimus, in a sepulchral tone — " Go on, 
I'll follow you." 

We entered an apartment which had been care- 
fully fitted up to represent the infernal regions, and 
was doubtless as accurate, in the main, as the descrip- 
tions by Dante, Quevedo, Bunyan and others, who 
have published their travels to that interesting 
country — but, strange is the inconsistency of man, 
who freely pays to understand the fabricated accounts 
of impudent impostors, when he has a reliable pro- 
mise, reiterated once a week, that he has already 



D Y D r M U S DUMPS. 229 

commenced his journey there, and will shortly wit- 
ness the real thing without fee or reward. 

Our guide, perceiving the astonishment of Dydi- 
mus, turned to him, and remarked in a lachrymose 
and nasal tone, which would have elicited tears from 
monumental alabaster, upon which no tears had ever 
been shed: 

" Ah, sir ! I see you have a soul to enjoy these 
matters. Man, who was placed as the pastoral pro- 
tector of all animated nature, becomes the tyrant, 
and finally directs his inhumanity to man, and 
makes — " 

" ! Burn the quotation. I am in pursuit of facts 
and not ethics — go on with your show, and let me 
understand what entertainment you can afford an 
inquiring mind." 

"Look you here, sir," continued the showman, 
"and observe the operation of this wheel. This 
gentle motion delicately disengages the thigh-bones 
from the sockets — and this dislocates the arms — 
never was there invented a more perfect piece of 
mechanism — this is the exact expression while the 
wheel was in this position. The portrait was taken 
from life — or rather between life and death, by Al- 
bert Durer — an exceedingly clever sketcher in his 



230 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 

day, and wonderfully endued with a proper apprecia- 
tion of the fantastic and horrible. By this motion, 
sir, the chest yon observe is considerably elevated, 
but so gradually as not to give any sudden shock to 
physical endurance, until by this additional turn of 
the wheel we dislocate the spine. Every thing com- 
plete, you perceive, sir. Take a turn at the crank, 
and you will see how systematically it operates." 

" Beautiful !" exclaimed Mr. Dumps. " Equal to 
a modern corn-sheller. Man's talent for mechanics 
is wonderful ! Even in his instruments of torture he 
manifests refinement. That machine must have cost 
the ingenious inventor much deep reflection before 
he could have rendered it so perfect. It moves like 
clock-work." 

" Beats it all to nothing," said the showman ; " for 
no one who has tried that machine, ever stood in 
need of clock-work afterward. Here, sir, is the in- 
genious process of filling the bowels of an obstinate 
witness with water for the purpose of washing out 
the truth. If the proverb be correct, that truth lies 
at the bottom of a well, the surest way to get at it is 
to fill a man's bowels with water and then pump it 
out of him." 

" In vino Veritas^ is a proverb of equal authority,'' 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 231 

said Dydimus; they should have filled him with 
wine. But truth hath many hiding-places and is 
hard to be discovered." 

"Look this way, sir. Here are two children 
whose feet were roasted to a coal in the presence of 
their parents, and the instrument of torture in which 
they were confined. This is the exact expression of 
the countenance after ten minutes roasting ; and 
this, after the lapse of half an hour. 

" ' If t were done when 't is done, then 'twere well 
It were done quickly.' "■ 

" Here is the punishment of the iron hoot, celebra- 
ted for being the most dreadful ever invented ; by 
which the bones in the legs are crushed and the mar- 
row forced from them." 

Thus he went on, describing the various modes 
of torture in the exhibition, and perceiving the in- 
terest felt by Mr. Dumps in his exaggerated narra- 
tive of blended fact and fiction, concluded by inform- 
ing him that in the course of a few days he would 
have it in his power to afford him inexpressible 
pleasure, for he hourly expected " The Virgin Mary 
and her hundred lances," so celebrated in the history 
of the infernal inquisition. 



232 D Y D I M U S DUMPS. 

Mr. Dumps continued his visits liere for several 
weeks, to study out the complicated machinery of 
the hundred lances with which the victim was trans- 
pierced, while expecting to receive a benediction and 
maternal embrace. He admired the refinement and 
humanity of dispatching a wretch from this world, 
when his mind was wholly occupied with serious 
thoughts of another. Finally, even this scene of 
complicated horrors, became " flat, stale and unpro- 
fitable," and his mind could find no food to fatten 
on but itself. He was now indeed a melancholy 
man. 

I had missed him for some time, and on inquiry, 
learned that he was dead. As his departure from 
this mundane sphere was rather unceremonious for 
a gentleman remarkable for his rigid observance of 
decorum, a coroner's inquest was held to ascertain 
the cause of his hasty exit, but more especially to 
put money in that worthy officer's pocket. It ap- 
peared that on the evening previous to his death, his 
mind being much depressed, he indulged to excess 
in his favorite repast of clams and sturgeon, in order 
to keep up his spirits, from which some conjectured 
he had died of a surfeit, but as they found in his 
chamber a wheel-barrow load of the writings of 



DYDIMUS DUMPS. 233 

modern French novelists, a volume of whicli was 
open before liim, one of the jurymen exculpated the 
clams and sturgeon from all participation in the 
transaction, for as he remarked, "Those books are 
a vast deal harder of digestion, and in truth, if taken 
in large doses, would be enough to kiU the— dickens. 
There was a difference of opinion in the minds of 
those jurors who flattered themselves they had 
minds, as to the cause of the death of Dydimus, and 
as they found it impossible to agree, they buried him 
without a verdict, and the county paid the coroner 
his costs. 



234 A SHANDYISM. 



ME. ASPENLEAF.— A SHANDYISM. 



"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return unto the 
ground."— Genesis. "Let more work be laid upon the men that they labor 
therein." — Kxodus. <' The prince cannot say to the merchant I have no need of 
thee; nor the merchant to the laborer I have no need of thee." — Swift. " Sir, 
I am a true laborer. I earn that I eat; get that I wear; owe no man hate; envy 
no man's happiness." — Shakspeare. 

Anthony Aspenleaf and I studied law in the 
the same office. The students for a time familiarly 
called him Toney, but as he recoiled from the 
insignificant patronymic, delicacy prompted them 
to address him by the title of Mr. Aspenleaf, for 
they were gentlemen, and would not disturb the 
self-esteem of a very amiable though over-sensitive 
creature. At that time we made lawyers out of 
gentlemen — when will the time arrive that we can 
make gentlemen out of lawyers ? 

Mr. Aspenleaf belonged to the order of society 
who mince their steps upon a Turkey carpet, fashion 
their countenances in gilded mirrors on pictured 
walls, — study their smiles, their bows and paces, 
until their shadow gives assurance of a man, and 



A SHANDYISM. 235 

then they step forth into the open air, daintily tread 
upon the bosom of mother earth, as if fearful that 
the raw material of which they are themselves com- 
posed may sully the science of the shoemaker. 

Mr. Aspenleaf had received a collegiate educa- 
tion ; at least his father had paid divers sums of 
money to obtain a certificate from a learned institu- 
tion that he was enabled to call himself — " dunce" 
in two dead languages, while the " profane vulgar" 
could pronounce him such only in the vernacular. 
Education had, in that particular, afforded him con- 
siderable advantage over the uninitiated. 

But Mr. Aspenleaf was no dunce. His mind was 
a great reservoir into which countless streams 
poured abundantly their delicious waters, but as 
there was no living spring within, they soon became 
a stagnant pool. 

There was not a gem in the Latin and Greek 
authors that had escaped him, and he would sing 
them out with heart-felt glee — and then in English 
literature to see him poking along the hedge-rows 
— raising the rank grass in nooks and corners, like 
a botanist, where the sun seldom shines, and dis- 
covering a violet — with what triumph would he 
present it, and expiate on its beauty, until his S23irit 



236 A S H A N D Y I S M. 

became saddened by reverting to tlie liard fate of 
him wbo planted it. 

Toney's father was introduced upon this mundane 
sphere especially to sustain the fallen fortunes of 
long silk-hose, white-topped boots, and velvet small- 
clothes. I see him now, in my mind's eye, passing 
along the street — perchance meeting an acquaint- 
ance, and then the solemnity with which he would 
bend his powdered head, gently shake it as if appre- 
hensive of disturbing some sleepy idea, and then the 
practiced smile, that creamed and mantled on the 
stagnant pool of his finely chiseled countenance, 
while he gracefully waved his right hand, and, with 
head erect proceeded with becoming gravity. Oh, 
it was beautiful ! We threw aside our Chesterfield 
and made old Mr. Aspenleaf our high priest when 
sacrificing at the altar of the graces. 

Toney was admitted as an attorney-at-law, and 
with sound credentials, for he could construe — " In- 
teger vitoe" — recognized the truth of the precept, 
and reveled in the poetry — had diligently served 
out the required apprenticeship — and most deser- 
vedly received a certificate that he was an honorable 
gentleman. He had eschewed Bacon — attempted 
to digest Littleton as cooked up by Coke — and we 



A SHANDYISM. 237 

occasionally took a liunting excursion tlirough 
fem^ and cai'ed not a rush about our contingent 
remainders. Ambition pointed out a vacant seat in 
the judiciary, as a crowning reward in the distant 
perspective, but we little dreamt that the time might 
arrive when such distinction would be spurned as 
an indignity proffered as a compliment to an honest 
life of intellectual labor. 

Shortly after he was admitted, we were seated in 
the Court of Quarter Sessions, big with the conceit 
of dignity. A poor fellow was arraigned for some 
offence against the conventional rules that castigate 
morals in this latitude, and as he had not the means 
to purchase a word that might palliate his error, the 
judge, under the mask of humanity, called upon Mr. 
Aspenleaf to make his maiden speech in his defence, 
that the poor creature might be deluded into the 
idea that he was convicted according to law. Oh, 
mockery ! He was indicted, if my memory fails not, 
for taking improper liberties with a hen-roost — a 
hen-roost should be as intactus as a maiden. The 
counsel for the offended commonwealth — cocked 
and primed — let fly at him with the whole of 
Cicero's oration against Cataline, (as it blew up the 
conspirator, one might reasonably expect that it still 



238 A SHANDYISM. 

retained force enougli to knock down a cliicken 
thief,) and Toney deluged tlie jury with a blast 
from Demosthenes. The judge shoveled up his 
legal accretions into a sort of a wind-mill, such as 
farmers use to winnow the chaff from the corn, 
though in its revolutions making considerably more 
clatter, and when done, he requested the twelve 
geese penned up in the jury-box to pick up the 
grains, and accordingly they gobbled all, without 
regarding cockle from wheat. Toney tried the case, 
but unfortunately the case proved restive, and tried 
Toney and floored him. The prisoner was found 
guilty of arson, he did not clearly understand by 
what course of reasoning they had arrived at their 
equitable deduction, and was more amazed when 
called upon, a week after, to hear the learned judge 
sentence him to the penitentiary for manslaughter. 
But he was grateful; he knew that he deserved 
punishment for a dirty offence, and felt proud that 
his character had been exalted by a record of man- 
slaughter, instead of being branded with the petty- 
larceny pilfering of a hen-roost. There are grades 
of rank even in rascality. 

" Every man has business and desires such as it 
is." Mr. Aspenleaf and I separated ; he in pursuit 



A SHANDYISM. 23 J 

of refined pleasures on tlie continent of Europe, I to 
the turmoil of professional drudgery. Near thirty 
years had elapsed since I set eyes upon him, when 
one morning in last August, while employed in my 
garden in consultation with my cabbages about 
what should be done for our mutual benefit we were 
interrupted with — 

'* Ut flos iu septis secretus nascitur hortis." 

I raised my head and beheld a white-haired man 
standing on a slight eminence above me ; his right 
hand resting on a gold-headed cane, while in his left 
he held a jeweled snuff-box and cambric handker- 
chief. His blue dress-coat, of the finest fabric, was 
ornamented with bright gilt buttons, and his Mar- 
seilles vest in like manner. He wore a white cra- 
vat, tied with studied precision, and in all respects 
was a second edition of old Mr. Aspenleaf, revised 
and corrected, with an appendix to the breeches, 
converting them into pantaloons, which were tightly 
strapped beneath his polished boots. 

He smiled blandly as we shook hands, but from 
some nervous emotion he did not attempt to speak 
as I conducted him from the garden to the library. 
Being seated, after the lapse of a few minutes, he 



210 ASHANDYISM. 

recovered himself and remarked in a low, tremu- 
lous, silver tone : 

" I have just returned from Europe after a long 
absence. Learning that you had retired to this spot, 
I availed myself of the first opportunity of visiting 
you, and the old fields where we rambled in our 
school-boy days. How we loved mother earth 
then!" 

" That is some forty years ago, if the old almanacs 
be authority." 

"I beseech you not to mention it," he replied 
imploringly. 

"Eemember, your favorite Martial says ; " Hoc est 
vivere his^ vita posse priore fruV 

"He may say so, but I care very little about 
looking back, and even the perspective is not over 
attractive." 

" What, sir, were your sensations on setting foot 
again on your native soil, after so long an absence." 

" I can best reply in the words of John Foster — 
' What is become of all those vernal fancies which 
had so much power to touch the heart ? What a 
number of sentiments have lived and reveled in the 
soul that are now irrevocably gone ! They died 
like the singing-birds of that time, which now sing 



A SHANDYISM. 241 

no more ! The life that we then had now seems 
almost as if it could not have been our own. When 
we go back to it in thought, and endeavor to recall 
the interests which animated it, they will not come. 
We are like a man returning after the absence of 
many years to visit the embowered cottage where 
he had passed the morning of his life, and finding 
only a relic of its ruins.' " 

" Your Horace and your Homer are still attrac- 
tive ?" 

" There was a time I fancied their freshness would 
never fade, but their wand is broken and they 
charm no more. ' The mind soon sickens that still 
feeds on verse.' As well might the intellect expect 
to sustain health and strength quaffing such stimu- 
lants, as the body when pampered with nothing but 
delicacies. Would I had been compelled to make 
my bread before I ate it ! The Adamus exul was a 
blessing and no curse, he would have sickened in 
Eden. At least that is the fate of his children who 
are pronounced most fortunate. I perceive my error 
when too late to be recalled, however, ' ut semen- 
tern feceris^ ita metes.'' What we sow, we must mow." 

"You must have enjoyed yourself in your 

travels ?" 

16 



242 A S H A N D Y I S M. 

" For a few years abundantly. I possessed feel- 
ings alive to the stupendous works of nature, and 
sufficient attainment to invest tlie artistic efforts of 
man with incidents of their history, which seemed 
to sanctify the interest they aivakened. For years 
the feast was 'never ending, still beginning,* but 
ultimately I enjoyed as the Zoophyte enjoys. How 
is it that some retain the elasticity of their spirits to 
the last ?" 

" They build up daily to fill the vacant places of 
those things that daily decay. They form acquaint- 
ances with the young — the future useful, and become 
of them, for the young grow old time enough for 
the distinction to vanish. By clinging only to the 
associates of our youth, we soon find ourselves 
as the last leaf of a stately tree shivering in the 
blasts of autumn, though the foliage in spring-time 
was refreshing and gorgeous. Build up incessantly ! 
Even the grave is oraculous in enforcing the pre- 
cept. The time will arrive when the grave in his 
turn will build up and forever." 

He turned his eyes upon a picture hanging against 
the wall, and inquired — " Whose portrait is that, 
sir?" 

" It is the likeness of Thomas Godfrey, the author 



A SHANDYISM. 243 

of tlie first tragedy written in America, some ninety 
years ago. The portrait was painted by his young 
friend, Benjamin West, a Pennsylvania boy, who 
after the death of Sir Joshua Eeynolds, was elected 
President of the Eoyal Academy in London." 

" I have heard of him, and also of the Eoyal 
Academy in my travels, but recollect no poet by the 
name of Godfrey." 

" And yet you have recently crossed the Atlantic 
without being aware that that man's father contri- 
buted materially to the safety of your voyage. We 
should look at home before we travel abroad. He 
was a humble painter and glazier, and self-taught 
mathematician of Philadelphia. In 1784 he in- 
vented the sea-quadrant, which now goes by the 
name of Hadley's quadrant. The scientific Anglo- 
Saxon furtively appropriated to his own especial 
use the discoveries of the poor and obscure, but 
mathematical glazier of Philadelphia, at that time 
little more than a village in the wilderness. This 
was practically picking the pocket of the pauper, 
and kicking the crutch from the cripple." 

" Alter tulit honores^^'' responded my friend, vi- 
brating his head with a solemnity which was 



244 A SIIANDYISM. 

intended to convey more tlian the quotation — 
" Another takes the honors !" 

" And the profit also. But is not this in keeping 
with the general conduct of that blustering old 
Bobadil John Bull, who for centuries has committed 
the grossest aggressions upon the feeble, and then 
enacts ex post facto laws to make it justice. Twice 
he has pawed up the dust, growled, shook his head 
and thrust his horns at Uncle Sam. But Uncle Sam 
seized him by the tail, whirled him round, and most 
irreverently applied his foot to his seat of honor and 
sent him home again roaring lustily. In the blind- 
ness of self-esteem he swore that he must have been 
thunderstruck, or it never could have occurred, 
when in truth he was only struck with a cane." 

"I fear that the alarming words are now so plainly 
written on his wall that it requires no Daniel to 
interpret their meaning." 

" They are inscribed in damning characters on 
the pallid faces of his over-worked and half-fed 
children ; on the bleeding hearts of a noble sample 
of the human family — and this is effected under a 
system of government formed to elevate the char- 
acter and secure the happiness of mankind. May 
the words be wiped from the wail, the face and the 



A SH ANDYIS M. 245 

heart, before the Daniels become weary of inter- 
preting. The world owes John Bull a debt of 
gratitude, which will be remembered through 
many succeeding generations, in despite of his 
countless aggressions and present dotage." 

After we had dined, Mr. Aspenleaf inquired 
where Godfrey, the inventor of the quadrant, was 
buried. I told him that his remains had been 
removed to Laurel Hill, which was but a short dis- 
tance from us. He proposed to walk there. He 
stood beside his monument in deep thought for 
some time, and on leaving it remarked — 

" That obscure and illiterate man did much for 
his fellow creatures ; would that I could say that I 
had done something, however so little." 

I conducted him to a terrace that overlooks the 
Schuylkill. I seated myself, while he stood at a 
short distance, leaning upon the railing of an enclo- 
sure, his mind absorbed with the beauty of the 
scenery. Suddenly I heard him murmuring to 
himself — 

" Glorious mother earth, I have loved thee for 
many years, but at times I have smiled to see thee 
so fantastic. You prank yourself in your old velvet 
coat of green, and stick in your bosom enormous 



246 A SHANDYISM. 

and gorgeous bouquets, like some sprightly Dutcli 
widow in her lustiliood, going to a Flemish painter, 
to sit for her picture. It ill becomes thee, at thy 
time of life, to assume such coquettish airs of juve- 
nility. And then again, I see thee matronly — with 
sunburnt cheek, robust limbs, smiling in soberness — 
thy lap filled until it can hold no more, unblushing 
mother earth ! If thy female children in the olden 
time were found in that condition the beadle would 
question them ; but you, shameless, laugh outright, 
and impudently court the eye of heaven, expecting 
it to wink and smile at thy dereliction, pregnant 
mother earth !" 

In amazement, I exclaimed, " what in the name 
of common sense are you talking about, and who 
are you talking to ?" But he did not heed me, and 
after inflating his lungs, continued : — 

" And again, when the fruit of thine iniquity is 
brought to light, in thy decline, enfeebled by thy 
labor, setting thine house in order, as if preparing 
for death, thou callest all thy children around thee, 
to an abundant feast, and bid them rejoice, and 
dance, and sing, and not weeji) over the faded beauty 
of thy youth ; and when thou art chiUed to the 
heart — sapless — sterile — apparently lifeless — sud- 



A SHANDYISM. 247 

denlj, we behold you arraying yourself in that ever- 
lasting coat of green, sticking fantastic flowers in 
your old breast, and then, with a boundless orchestra, 
of varied and discordant notes, attuned to universal 
harmony by your matchless diapason, heralding 
your revival, and you spring forth with smiling 
face and sparkling eye, laughing like a very wanton, 
prepared to play your merry pranks again. ! 
beauteous mother earth 1" 

" But is it earth ? Her children named her in 
their darkness, and, perchance, may have erred, 
while he, who could christen, came here to make 
her — Heaven. Let her first sponsors look to it, 
and give place to him who followed. She would 
become heaven, if we were only obedient to his 
precepts and example." 

Toney looked up, as a poor player would at a 
prompter, and continued : — 

" Perchance, she may be heaven — a part of it at 
least — say but the vestibule ! I know not even that, 
but this we all know, that he who made the heavens, 
made you also, most kind and bountiful mother. 
I will never return to your bosom, without having 
poured forth to the fullest extent, my measure of 
gratitude to you and your children. I love you." 



248 A SHANDY ISM. 

. " Toney, liave you been poring over Jacob 
Boelime, or pouring in too much sherry ?" He did 
not hear me, but inhaled the passing breeze, and 
continued : 

" I can make you the altar of my God, and wor- 
ship him upon your bosom with as pure a spirit as 
I can elsewhere. There is light sufficient in our 
comparative darkness to see that He is here with us, 
then, why treat him as a stranger. Humanity dic- 
tates to treat with hospitality a fellow creature — 
then, why not throw open your door wide to him 
who gave all; bar it not like a craven ingrate 
against his landlord ; but open wide. No matter 
how humble your dwelling, he will enter, and you 
will soon find it large enough to contain immensity. 
Commune with him, not as an abject thing would, 
unfit for him to have made, but as a proud son 
would pour forth his gratitude to an ever watchful 
father, and say, ' I thank thee for my creation.' 
Though humble in thine own estimation, hold up 
thy head and aspire to decent society. He is the 
best, and the most easy of access. He makes no 
distinction between the hovel of a pauper and the 
palace of a prince. All that he requires is a heart- 
felt welcome, and he, who has bestowed that, when 



A SHANDYISM. 249 

it becomes necessary for him, wlietlier prince or 
panper in tliis world, to knock at his celestial por- 
tals, he may confidently walk in, without feeling 
himself a stranger there, having entertained Him to 
the extent of his ability on earth. Eemember, we 
are all by common courtesy bound to return the 
visit. Look to it, that we keep our doors hospitably 
open while he condescends to sojourn with us here, 
lest we knock there as strangers." 

Mr. Aspenleaf having disembogued his mind of 
its wholesome secretions, leisurely took up the line 
of march, apparently unconscious that I had accom- 
panied him. I hastened after him, but as his mind 
was deeply absorbed, we leisurely proceeded to my 
home in silence. Our evening meal was prepared, 
but he declined to partake of it. 

" Our bottle of sherry awaits us, and there are 
good cigars. We enjoyed those appliances some 
thirty years ago. Refresh yourself, and crow like 
Chanticleer. Stir up, old rooster, clap your wings 
— crow — though you may be troubled with the 
phthysic, make the attempt and never show the 
white feather." 

"I will not indulge in luxuries to-night." He 
looked me full in the eyes, and something like a 



250 A SHA.NDYISM. 

smile flashed across liis gentle countenance — if it 
were a smile — lie was most distressingly nervous ; 
lie continued — " Our walk, I fear has been too much 
for me, and at your pleasure, it would be well for 
me to retire to my chamber." 

I took a light and conducted him to his apart- 
ment, and seated mj^self, while he prepared for rest. 
He knelt beside his bed. 

There may be pictures more attractive than that 
of a gray-haired, intelligent man kneeling and re- 
peating the prayer which he had daily repeated 
from the hour he nestled in his mother's arms, but 
there are few pictures can be more impressive ; 
none more pregnant with meaning. 

He commenced the prayer in a subdued tone, and 
when he came to the passage, " Give us this day 
our daily bread" — his frame became deeply agitated, 
he buried his face in the pillow, and he sobbed 
audibly. I approached him. 

" What is the matter, sir ?" 

" I have never earned my bread for a single day!" 
His whole frame shook. "Through a long and 
useless life I have daily besought God for my bread, 
without doing a hand's turn to make it. Pampered 
with all luxuries, and yet a mere pauper, wholly 



A SHANDYISM. 251 

dependent npon the labor of my fellow-man, and 
he, perchance, half-starved, on coarse food, to 
furnish me with luxuries." 

" Eeason not thus, sir ; there is another side to 
the question." 

"I can anticipate all that you would urge. I have 
never intentionally done wrong towards another, I 
am naturally, I think, benevolent. I entertain no 
ill-will — and at times, I have been reproved for 
allowing what I considered charity, to extend 
beyond the limits of liberality. But what does all 
that amount to ? I am indebted for my benevo- 
lence to my God — an innate impulse ; for my means 
of charity to the hands of others — no product of 
my labor." 

I touched him gently on the shoulder, and would 
have spoken when he checked me. 

" Say nothing more, I pray, to-night, sir. In my 
present tone of feeling, I can recognize but one 
astounding truth — it possibly may be an error, but 
I feel as if I had not done my duty, either toward 
myself, my fellow- creature, or my God. And 
there's a thought for an old man to dream upon." 

"Good-night, and may pleasant dreams refresh 
you." I took him by the hand. 



252 A SHANDYISM. 

" Good-niglit, and God bless my old school-fel- 
low." He gently pressed my liand and hastily 
smothered his face in the pillow. I paused for a 
moment as I opened the door and looked back, and 
as I closed it, I heard something like a deep-drawn 
sigh. I applied the thnmb and index-finger of my 
right hand to my eyes, and drew them together 
nntil they met at the root of my proboscis ; there 
was moisture there, but how or why it got there, 
God only knows. I proceeded to my solitary bed. 

The following morning was a bright one. I arose 
with the sun and resumed my great horticultural 
pursuit. "With hoe in hand I selected a remarkable 
drum-head cabbage, and went to work with a science 
worthy of Cincinnatus. In a few minutes I became 
philosophical; I rested on my hoe-handle, and 
having no one else to converse with, I addressed 
the cabbage, somewhat after this fashion : 

" Thou magnificent esculent ! Upon thy broad 
forehead I will place the crown, of my Eden. Thou 
art henceforth prince of the cabbage-bed. I will aid 
thee to sustain thy dignity. I have fattened thee 
with poudret and guano ; I have studied Leibig, 
solely to stimulate thee to carry out the important 
project we have in hand. Conceal thine ambition ; 



A SHANDYISM. 253 

be careful that you burst not with your importance, 
wlien you learn the honors that await you. I am 
prime minister, all depends upon me, but you shall 
take the honor, and I will content myself with the 
profit." 

His royal highness stared at me with his broad 
unmeaning face, yet seemed to say — 

" The profits ! — surely you would not sell me, 
prime minister ?" 

It was a home question, which I was too politic 
to answer, but methought, " That depends altogether 
upon the price you will bring in the market, 
king ! otherwise I am unfit to be prime minister." 
I continued my instructions as if I held within my 
grasp the destiny of all cabbages, from the noble 
drum-head and Savoy even down to the skunk 
cabbage. 

" Listen. When our mighty scheme is matured, 
and there is no danger of any screws getting loose, I 
will have thee conveyed, with considerable pomp 
and circumstance, and place thee conspicuously in 
the most public position that we can command in 
the approaching exhibition of the Horticultural 
Society. I will enlarge upon your utility in sup- 
plying that great alembic Colon with gas, in order 



254 A SHANDYISM. 

to keep tlie liver, tlie nerves, and the brain in action, 
and then expatiate upon the sufferings to which the 
insatiate tyrant has condemned jou ; to be boiled 
with rusty pork ; mangled to shreds, undergo the 
process of fermentation, and even then not satis- 
fied with the indignity, he will sentence thee to be 
imprisoned in the excavated stomach of a smoked 
goose, that he may swallow you, and triumph over 
your humiliation, cabbage ! What is it thou hast 
not suffered for thy country and the benefit of man- 
kind ! When you depart this mundane sphere, in 
truth, may Colon exclaim, ' in a windy suspiration 
of forced breath,' as Hamlet phrases it, 'Another 
revolutionary hero gone! Toll his requiem.'" 

I paused to remember some of the long political 
harangues used to inflate bladders, until they swell 
to the requisite dimensions of a statesman, upon the 
same principle that children blow bubbles through 
the stump of a pipe, from material but little more 
evanescent — but the child's bubble is more orna- 
mental than the bag of wind, and frequently quite 
as useful. 

I jerked up the waistband of my nether integu- 
ments, and throwing myself in the attitude geome- 
trically laid down in the old editions of Scotts' 



A SHANDYISM. 255 

immortal work on elocution, I extended one arm at 
an angle of forty degrees, and elevated the other to 
forty-six, and there I stood, like the cross of St. 
Andrew, in a somewhat rickety state, but regaining 
my equilbrium — then — " my eyes in a fine frenzy 
rolling" over the unmeaning face of my passive 
listener, I let him have it — Jupiter Tonan's ! — 
full of wrath and cabbage, until his green whiskers 
fairly curled with approbation. Thus I began: 

" Thy capacious head contains the concrete result 
of Leibig's investigation ; poudret and guano have 
contributed their aid to enlarge thy understanding ; 
the dews of heaven have been distilled upon thy 
forehead to refresh thee, and thou hast thrust thy 
toes into the chemical alembic of mother earth. 
Few are aware of the labor bestowed, and the 
science evoked, to make thee what thou art. What 
shall we do ? Thou must have a sheep-skin that thy 
science henceforth may not be questioned. What 
college shall have the honor of conferring the honor 
upon thee ? And what degree wilt thou take — an 
LL. D., M. D., or D. D.; or wilt thou take all? 
Let not thy diffidence interfere with thy preferment, 
for rest assured you will find many who have re- 



256 A SHANDYISM. 

ceived similar distinction standing in tlie same 
category with thyself." 

No reply ; but from the palor of his countenance 
he seemed to say, " O leave me alone an unobtru- 
sive cabbage !" 

"That will never do. Thou shalt go to the 
exhibition, and if the managers do not uncon- 
stitutionally offer their own heads in competition, 
beyond the shadow of a doubt, thou wilt be crowned 
by public acclamation, ' King of the Cabbage- 
heads !' Think of that. And then upon the 
imperishable records of the society we shall descend 
to posterity together. But bear in mind, sir ; our 
great project accomplished, I expect that in youT 
gratitude for my services you will appoint me 
minister plenipo, to the King of the Mosquetos." 

My candidate was silent. Taciturnity is fre- 
quently mistaken as an evidence of profound 
thought and wisdom, when in fact it is nothing 
more than a panoply assumed by dignified igno 
ranee to protect itself from public exposure. " He 
says little but he thinks the more," whispers an 
admirer of the sage philosopher, while the sage has 
not sufficient activity of mind even to think he 



A SHANDYISM. 257 

thinks. I concluded that my appointment was 
settled. 

Suddenly my ears were saluted with " Buz, buz, 
buz I" Curse the mosquetoes ! " Buz, buz, buz ! " 
Is a plenipo to be annoyed after this fashion? 
"Buz, buz, buz!" "The whole swarm is about 
me ; I will not except of the appointment, great 
king!" " Buz, buz, buz !" 

I whirled my arms about like the wings of a 
wind-mill to rid myself of the annoyance, but in 
so doing I destroyed the cross of St. Andrew, and 
knocked Scott's trigonomical illustration of elocu- 
tion into sufficient geometrical figures to solve the 
most abstruse problem in Euclid. I resumed my 
hoe. 

" I will establish for thee a broad platform, upon 
which we will erect a monument more lasting than 
brass — that's from Ovid ; Latin. When you shall 
have passed through your A B ab's, and B A ba's, 
you will perceive the importance of those sublime 
mysteries — " 

" Cockey-doodle-doo !" 

" Those troublesome chickens are in my garden 
again! Shew! Shew!" I did not raise my head, 
my mind was too intent upon raising the broad 

17 



258 A SHANDYISM. 

platform upon whicli I might establisli the radical 
principles of my cabbage. I worked with my hoe, 
believing that it would produce better results than 
the brains of some politicians. 

" Cockey-doodle-doo !" 

" Confound that rooster, he shall understand that 
he is not cock of the walk about these diggins.^'' j 
cautiously looked around for a stone, intending to 
have a whack at him ; having found one, I raised 
myself very gingerly, fearful that I might disturb 
his self-complacency, when, to my confusion, I 
beheld my friend Mr. Aspenleaf standing on an 
elevation a few yards from me, smiling blandly. I 
dropped the stone and laughed. " Crow again." 

He flapped his arms against his sides in imitation 
of Chanticleer, and crowed with a voice as clear as 
the note of a church bell chiming the Ave Mary. 
Immediately all the roosters within hearing, each 
on his own dung-hill, of course, answered the chal- 
lenge, sent it back again, and made my friend 
Toney appear as a nervous kindred of St. Yitus. 
I addressed my Drum-Head. " There are many 
champions in the field, sir, and from the notes of 
their clarions, I infer they will make a -^lard fight." 
He looked as if he had already been converted 



A SHANDYISM. 259 

into krout. " Not a word, sir ? Thou hast all the 
elements of gas within thee ; blaze awaj ; make a 
noise ; rumble about the revolution you kicked up 
in Colon — the era of the great hurricane — eh ? Still 
silent I I indignantly decline the mission to the 
Mosquetoes ; I throw down my hoe at the foot of 
your platform, but as I am your prime minister, I 
will sell you in open market, at the proper season, 
to the highest bidder, and put the proceeds in my 
pocket." 

I approached Mr. Aspenleaf and took him by the 
hand. 

^' How did you rest, sir ?" 

"I feel much refreshed. But, pray, to whom 
were you making that impassioned harangue ? For 
a moment I imagined that you were dreaming and 
talking aloud in your sleep. 

"Byron somewhere remarks, 'the best of life is 
sleep,' however that may be, the greater part of 
life is but a dream, from which many are never 
awakened until old Time shakes them up, pats them 
on the head encouragingly, and kindly says, 'I 
trust I do not disturb your repose, but it is my 
business, sir, to call upon you, and mention that 
you have had a long sleep ; I trust by this time you 



260 A SHANDYISM. 

are refresliecl, and after you have opened your eyes, 
so that you may understand that my mission with 
you has terminated, I will respectfully suggest to 
you that you can quietly lie down again, take 
another nap; and if my heir, Eternity, be as 
indulgent a father as I have been, perchance you 
may sleep forever. Sleep on.' " 

" Give me a peck of corn!" exclaimed Toney, "I 
feel that I belong to the class, '•fruges consumere 
nati^^ but wish to make my bread for one day, that 
I may appreciate what those of the stalwart limb 
and sunshine face, throwing out rays strong enough 
to disperse the mist of the bathed brow, have to 
endure in order to make their daily bread." 

" Their daily bread ! Each will make enough by 
one month's labor, properly distributed, with the 
assistance of mother Earth, to sustain him for a 
year. His daily bread would be a small requisition 
upon his energies, if he were not required to stuff 
the maws of swarms of non-productives with 
delicacies." 

" Give me some corn, and a hoe !" exclaimed 
Mr. Aspenleaf, flourishing his gold-headed cane, and 
extending his right leg with a spasmodic movement, 



A SHANDYISM. 261 

''Give me some corn, and I will raise a crop tliat 
Ceres herself shall be proud to harvest." 

" I fear, sir, it is rather too late in the season for 
you to plant. That is the business of spring-time. 
There is an appointed season for all things, and I 
fear that the frosts of autumn may catch your 
harvest before it is ripened for the garner." 

" True. I thought not of that. To see it when 
half ripened, checked in its promise — mildewed — 
worthless, and then reflecting what it would have 
produced had I but attended to my work at the pro- 
per season. That, methinks, would give me pain." 

"Still we are aware that the eleventh -hour men 
received as full wages as those who toiled all day 
and endured the heat of the sun." 

" And so they did." 

" Still something can be done. My little crop was 
sown, as I thought in due season, and appears pro- 
mising, but as I may be light-handed at harvest- 
time, come out to me and lend a helping hand. 
The smallest aid is gratefully received in those 
emergencies. 

" I will most assuredly be with you." 

" And then when we have it faithfully garnered — 
where the thief cannot break in — sheltered from 



262 A SHANDYISM. 

the weather and tlie vermin, we will sit down to the 
harvest feast, a board of abundance, in amity with 
those who have toiled with us through the heat of 
the day — see with what appetite they feed, and how 
cheerfully they retire to their rest after their labor." 

*' But what shall I do ? A mere looker-on in the 
harvest-field, when I am summoned to take my 
rest?" 

" You and I can be watchful that no one depart 
dissatisfied ; and the feast over, let it be our care to 
gather up the fragments and see that nothing be 
lost." • ■ 

"My feast is over," — he smiled sadly as he 
pressed my hand — " all that remains to me is to 
gather up the fragments, and see that nothing be 
lost. There is more meaning in your apparent 
levity than I at first discovered." 

" Possibly so. Call it truth in masquerade." 

" I shall not forget the harvest-feast, and the frag- 
ments. I will be with you. "Would I had labored 
throughout the heat of the sun, that when I go 
home I may honestly take my wages, and feel that 
I have honestly earned them." 



THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 263 



THE LADY OF KUTHYE^. 



Teavelling in the northern part of Great Brit- 
ain, I turned aside from my road to view more 
closely one of those ancient edifices that stand, as it 
were, a connecting link, between times gone by and 
the present. I ever took delight in contemplating 
these mighty piles of past ages, for they operate as 
a talisman on the imagination, and in an instant the 
mercurial mind, in defiance of space and time, lives 
whole centuries. While surveying the building 
an aged man approached, and accosted me. " You 
appear," said he, " to be a stranger, and interested 
with the exterior of the castle ; perhaps the interior 
may equally excite your curiosity; if so, I will 
attend you through the building." I gladly accepted 
of the old steward's invitation, for such he proved 
to be, and I could not possibly have had a better 
guide, for he was communicative, and intimately 



264 THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 

familiar witli tTie liistory of the castle and its inmates, 
from tlie time the corner-stone was deposited. 

He led me tlirougli lofty chambers that frowned 
in all the gloom of Gothic times ; extended galleries 
and stately halls, concerning each of which some 
anecdote was rife in his memory. He paused with 
peculiar satisfaction in the armory, hung around 
with banners, arms, and the trophies of war. He 
was familiar with the history of every weapon and 
coat of mail, and gave with tedious accuracy an 
account of the various conflicts in which the 
several indentations, perceptible on the warlike 
apparel, were received. From the armory we 
passed into the gallery of family pictures, whicli 
afford many of the rudest, with some of the finest, 
specimens of art. 

Here might be seen the mailed knight scowling 
death to his prostrate antagonist, or gazing with 
his eyes full of devotion on his lady love ; there a 
judge, with fat, unmeaning face and full-bottomed 
wig, looking askance at a hoop petticoat, and a 
diminutive countenance peering beneath a wilder- 
ness of curls ; not unlike an owl from an ivy bush ; 
a little farther, a group of corydons and shepher- 
desses, watching their flocks, which had called forth 



THE LADY OF R U T H V E N. 265 

the greatest care of tlie artist, and tlien came the 
matter-of-fact portrait of modern days, which can 
do nothing more for an ugly face than make it 
handsome, or place a man in a studious posture 
with a book in his hand, though he scarcely com- 
prehends the alphabet. 

While surveying the different portraits, my eye 
fell on one calculated to make the spectator shrink 
at the first glance. It was a warrior clad in a coat 
of mail, his hair was gray, his countenance thin and 
cadaverous, and his eye as fierce as that of the 
enraged tiger. His forehead was bony, capacious, 
and reposed on a pair of thick bushy brows. His 
cheek bones were high, his chin robust, and his thin 
lips compressed, indicative of cool determination. 

" That," said the old man, " is the portrait of 
Lord Kuthven, who was at the slaying of David 
Kizzio. He left his sick bed, to which he had been 
confined for three months, pale and emaciated, too 
feeble to bear the weight of his armor, or even to 
support his own body without assistance, to do a 
murder at the bidding of, and in the presence of, 
his king." 

" And is that," said I, " the man who took life 
in cool blood, and calmy sat down in the presence 



266 THE LADY OT RUTHVEN. 

of liis insulted Queen, and tauntingly called for 
drink to quench his thirst, while his bony hands 
were still reeking with the life-blood of her 
favorite? But who are those young men to the 
left, on the same canvass, whose countenances are 
full of manly beauty, and glow with intelligence ?" 

" The last of the name of Euthven. The Ions of 
that Earl of Gowrie, whose restless spirit burst 
forth at the maid of Euthven, and finally terminated 
its earthly career on the scaffold. His sons were 
the pride of Scotland in their day, and fell at the 
same instant, while perpetrating the most inexpli- 
cable conspiracy that history has recorded. Their 
dead bodies were brought into parliament, indicted 
for high treason, their honors and estates were 
forfeited, and the ancient and proud name of 
Euthven forever abolished." 

"And who is that," I inquired, pointing at a 
female portrait, " whose face rivals in loveliness all 
that the Italian artists have combined in their ideal 
beauty? Where female softness is so admirably 
blended with masculine vigor, that the trial for 
mastery at the first glance appears doubtful, but on 
a nearer view it is plain to see that the latter, in this 
instance, as in all others, maintains a transcendent 



THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 267 

influence over tlie former! Behold the arched 
brow where pride sits enthroned ; the eye beneath 
it beaming love, and the lips that would tempt an 
anchorite to press them, were it not for the latent 
fire in that eye, and the firmness of purpose indica- 
ted by that chin, at the same time that the curve of 
beauty is preserved, forbids even the passionless 
kiss of an anchorite ! This I should judge to be the 
work of some enthusiastic painter, who, in a delirium 
of love, delineated the mistress of his imagination, 
rather than the being that nature had created." 

The withered cheek of the old man glowed at 
my praise, and he replied, "That is the Swan of 
the house of Euthven, who was reared in the 
raven's nest when her own flock was scattered. 
She was the child of the last of the name ; still an 
infant at the time of her father's murder, and when 
the storm tore up, root and branch, the noble tree 
that had withstood the rage of warring elements 
for centuries, this last frail scion was transplanted 
to a foreign land, where it grew in beauty worthy 
of its parent stem. Eightly have you judged in 
pronouncing that picture the work of an enthusiastic 
lover; it is by the celebrated Yandyck, to whom 
nature not only lent her coloring, but watched 



268 THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 

every toncli and carefully guided his hand. Charles, 
the martyr, at whose court the orphan of the fallen 
house of Kuthven was a maid of honor, bestowed 
her in marriage on the impassioned painter, and 
never did the skilful artist exercise his brush with 
greater success, than when delineating the lovely 
features of the object of his adoration." 

I left the gallery with my mind filled with 
widely different reflections from those which occu- 
pied it on entering. The mute canvass on which 
I had been gazing, had read to me a striking lesson 
on the vicissitudes of human life, and the futility 
of the attempt to perpetuate a name. Here I 
beheld a long line of ancestry, who had kept 
monarchs in awe and been linked with royalty, 
extinguished by a breath — a single word — and the 
last remaining drop of their haughty blood, the very 
essence of their race, a thousand times distilled, 
indebted for its preservation to charity, and finally 
bestowed on one whose progenitors had passed as 
obscurely through the world as the purling stream 
through the untrodden wilderness, and yet to the 
talents of this man is she more indebted for the 
duration of her name, than to the daring deeds of 
her turbulent ancestors. I here also learnt that he 



THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 269 

who was tlie monarcli's terror, tlie monarcli himself, 
and she for whose charms the monarch might 
proudly have sighed, can obtain no more sub- 
stantial fame than an outline of their features on 
perishabje canvass, or a page in history seldom 
opened. 

Most glorious guerdon, after a feverish existence, 
when we reflect — 

There's not tliat work 

Of careful nature or of cunning art, 

How strong, how beauteous, or how rich it be, 

But falls in time to ruin. 



270 THE VISIONARY. 



THE YISIONAEY. 



" He travels on, a solitary man ; 
His age has no companion." — "Wordsworth. 

It was a bright morning in spring, my uncle bad 
returned from bis accustomed walk and retired to 
bis study, a small building erected for tbat purpose, 
a sbort distance from tbe main dwelling. I entered 
to announce tbat bis breakfast awaited bim, and 
found bim busy writing. He tbrew down bis pen, 
and said to me, smiling, " I scarce needed anotber 
proof to satisfy me tbat I am but a sorry poet ; but 
we bave all sufficient vanity to imagine tbat we can 
approach tbe sun on doedalic wings, and unhappily 
tbe nearer tbe approach tbe greater tbe danger." 
" What subject has engaged your pen, sir ?" 
" In my walk this morning," be said, " I met poor 
David Wayland, tbe village pauper. Tbe old man 
has seen prosperous and happy days, and now be 
lives on common charity. Oh ! my boy, how bitter 



THE VISIONARY. 271 

must be that crust that is grudgingly given and 
reluctantly received, but to prolong the useless 
remnant of a wretched existence! — David was 
seated in a solitary place on the margin of the 
river. As I approached, I found him engaged in 
deep thought, and there were tears in his eyes. I 
demanded what it was afflicted him. 

" 'I have little to do, but think,' he replied, ' and 
the mind is an inn that admits strange guests at 
times. I have been viewing myself, from my joy- 
ous infancy unto the present hour, as in a glass, 
and thoughts have occurred that are beyond the 
scope of my understanding.' 

" ' And what were your thoughts, David V 

" He turned to me, and with a sorrowful look 
replied, 'I am a miserable old man, sir, a mere 
wreck of the creature that God had richly endowed, 
and all I have to offer him in return for his bound- 
less beneficence, is a wretch despised by his fellow- 
man and crushed to earth by the evils of mortality.' 

" ' I do not comprehend you.' 

" ' I had children — they were the counterparts of 
what I was in infancy ; they passed to the grave 
and their loss was mourned in bitterness by me. 
But the being of my own childhood has as irrevo- 



272 THE VISIONARY. 

cably disappeared, and wliere is it? No one 
deplored its departure but myself. They will 
re- appear, radiant in tlieir innocence, but I never 
again as I then was. Our clianges here are mani- 
fold. The being of but yesterday ceases to exist 
to-morrow, and time and circumstance render man 
a daily suicide, as every stage destroys the preced- 
ing, and a new, creation, phoenix-like, springs 
from the ashes of the old. They pass away, but 
whither? Kesponsible agents if when called 
hence, they had cast off this mantle of mortality ; 
but self-destroyed, and leaving this frail tenement 
for their successor, where are they ? How shall I 
appear hereafter? as I now exist, when the pro- 
tracted lamp is flickering in the socket, or as one of 
the countless beings that have moved and breathed 
in this house of clay in my progress from infancy 
to age? — Alas! I alone remain — the last metempsy- 
chosis of a numerous progeny, long since passed 
away, the only record of whose existence is in the 
tablets of my own memory. I have seen them all, 
and must they, infant, youth, and man, re-appear in 
me, as I am now, or each assume in his own peculiar 
shape, his individual responsibility?' 

" I replied, that they were all one and the same 



THE VISIONARY. 273 

essence and indivisible, and that the infant and 
youth he deplored, still lived in David "Wayland, 
borne down with age and sorrow. 

" ' Then truly has it been written,' said he, sigh- 
ing deeply, 

" The child is father of the man," 

and the sins of that father are visited upon the head 
of countless generations.' 

"Visionary as you may pronounce the old man's 
theory, blood has been shed ere now to establish 
doctrines scarce as plausible." 

David had returned with my uncle to the cottage 
to get his morning's meal, as was his custom, and 
his hunger was no sooner satisfied when he with- 
drew to some secluded spot among the wild hills to 
meditate on his visionary notions of futurity. 
" Poor fellow," said my uncle, looking after him, as 
he slowly bent his way from the cottage. — " The 
prophet has said ' it is good for man that he bear the 
yoke in his youth,' thou has borne it, still the joy 
of thy heart is ceased ; thy dance has turned into 
mourning." 

" You knew him, then, sir, in happier days ?" 

"No — not in happier. My first acquaintance 



274 THE VISIONARY. 

■with him was somewhat remarkable. A few years 
ago I left the little village of Munster, to descend 
the Allegheny mountain late of an afternoon. 
Heavy masses of clouds portended a coming storm. 
The traveller at that period was compelled to pursue 
his solitary journey through the wilderness along a 
narrow and doubtful path, deeming himself for- 
tunately if he found a hospitable hovel to shelter 
him after the fatigues of the day's journey. I had 
not proceeded many miles when it was with the 
utmost difficulty I discerned the winding path 
before me. Night was approaching, and the lofty 
trees of the forest groaned with the weight of the 
tempest. I spurred my horse with impatience, but 
he ambled on as philosophically as if he thought it 
as well to be overtaken by the storm in one place 
as in another. I coaxed him, expostulated with, 
flattered him on the score of his spirit and speed, to 
no purpose, and finally I became exceedingly 
indignant, but still he doggedly ambled on, as 
much as to say, 'This, sir, is altogether your own 
business ; mend matters the best way you may.* 
The rain now came down in torrents, and large 
branches torn from the trees were falling in every 
direction around me. I hurried on, without know- 



THE VISIONARY. 275 

ing wHcli way I directed my course, and was soon 
completely lost in the wilderness. I dismounted to 
search for shelter, when fortunately a projecting 
rock offered itself as a protection. I secured my 
horse and was endeavouring to reconcile myself to 
my uncomfortable lodgings, when I fancied I heard 
a faint strain of music in the intervals of the 
tempest. I arose in astonishment — the music con- 
tinued, and seemed to proceed from beneath the 
surface of the earth. When the storm abated I left 
the rock to ascertain the occasion of this mystery. 
I descended a hillock and discovered the feeble rays 
of a cavern immediately before me. I paused at 
the door — a tremendous, but melodious voice still 
solemnly chaunted : 

'His voice doth rule the waters all as he himself doth 

please ; 
He doth prepare the thunder claps and governs all the seas. 
The voice of God doth rend and break the cedar trees so 

long, 
The cedar trees of Lebanon which are both high and strong !' 

" As it ceased I pushed open the door and dis- 
covered an aged man in the act of devotion. His 
flowing beard covered his bosom and his feeble hand 
trembled as it held the book of prayer. When he 



276 THE VISIONARY. 

finislied his devotions, he rose from his knees and 
welcomed me to his solitary dwelling. My curiosity 
was excited by the rudeness of his habitation, 
which was too low to admit of a man standing 
upright. 

'"I perceive,' said the hermit, 'that you are 
astonished how a human being can exist in a 
miserable cell like this ; but no mortal knows what 
he can undergo, and how very little he absolutely 
requires until he is put to the trial.' 

" ' True,' I replied, ' but are trials of this nature 
conducive to happiness.' " 

" ' Happiness,' exclaimed the old man, ' is a word 
which scarcely conveys a definitive meaning; for 
what we fancy one moment to be happiness, 
frequently proves to be misery the next. It is 
scarce worthy to be taken in the calculation of 
human affairs, for if at the close of the longest life 
we were to enumerate our joys and sorrows, even 
the most fortunate would wonder at the fortitude 
that sustained him through the chequered scene of 
existence. At least such has been the case with 
me.'" 

On my* expressing a curiosity to learn what had 
induced him to abandon society, he replied : 



THE VISIONARY. 277 

" ' The circumstances of my life are soon related ; 
they possess neither novelty nor interest, however, 
I will comply with your request. 

" ' In youth we looked upon life through a prism, 
and from brilliant illusions that can never be 
realized. We pursue the gaudy phantom with 
ardor, until awakened to a sense of our folly by 
repeated disappointment ; and highly favored is he 
who possesses the philosophy not to become dis- 
gusted with the world, when calmly contemplating 
it in its real colors. 

" ' I was born in the interior of Pennsylvania. 
My father was a substantial farmer ; and as I was 
his only child, I received every indulgence from 
my tender parents. ISTothing but flowers sprung 
up in my pathway. My days were passed in 
wandering through the lofty mountains that sur- 
rounded our humble dwelling, framing visions of 
the fancied paradise which lay beyond them, and in 
tracing the lines of my future conduct even to the 
sunset of existence. Nay, my dreamy speculations 
were not limited to this world, and I arrogantly 
believed that the whole plan of the creator was 
miraculously divulged to me. 

"'In time I began to repine at my unvaried 



278 THE VISIONARY. 

mode of life, and panted to pass the barriers that 
restrained me as I thonglit from happiness. * This 
world,' I said, ' was made for action — it is full of 
joy, and he who supinely passes his life in a remote 
corner, is a recreant to his duty and should be 
classed among the dead and not the living.' 

" 'I left my aged parents and went into the world. 
They wept bitterly at my departure. But what of 
that! Is it uncommon for children to wring the 
hearts of their parents even to weeping tears of 
blood? — The stream of affection flows downward, 
sweeping away all obstacles, from parent to child, 
but alas I how seldom does it know a returning ebb, 
with the same strength to that pure and holy 
fountain ! 

'"I entered the army and continued there for 
several years, and distinguished myself in the field 
of battle, but eventually I was sorely wounded. 
During a tedious recovery, whilst lying in a 
wretched hospital, I began to reflect that my 
dangers and suffering bore very little resemblance 
to the illusions of my boyhood, for even here I 
found no other reward for my daily trials than rest 
when fatigued, and food when hungry. — These, I 
sighed, might have been attained without the 



THE VISIONARY. 279 

hazard of life, or the curse of having poisoned the 
peace of those who gave me being. JSTo — it is not 
in the army that my destiny is to be fulfilled and 
my happiness completed. I threw up my commis- 
sion, disgusted with the pursuit of military glory, 
and returned to my native village a wiser if not a 
better man. 

" ' When I arrived, I learned that both my parents 
had died some time before. I sought out their 
graves, and as I stood beside them, bitter was the 
recollection of the tears I had caused them to shed 
when we last parted. The heart kept a faithful 
record of its transgressions in burning characters ; 
we may turn from it ; devote a life in striving to 
obliterate what is therein written, but in vain — 
sooner or later it must be read. I read and wept. 

'' ' I converted the effects left at my father's 
death into money, and directed my steps towards 
Philadelphia, where, in a short time I appeared as 
a merchant at the exchange. The exciting scenes 
continually rising to view promised that I should 
soon find the world as I imagined it. My heart 
expanded as it daily quaffed professions of friend- 
ship and blandishments of love, but still there was 
somethinoj wantins: — fruition never realized the 



280 THE VISIONARY. 

dream of anticipation. — However, tTiere was suf- 
ficient to make the world an enticing one ; but alas I 
tlie gaj delusion was not permitted to continue 
long. I was cheated of my fortune by the man I 
considered my bosom friend ; and then the mistress 
of my heart, with whom in a short time I was to 
have been united, thought it prudent to forget her 
protestations of eternal affection, and marry the 
wretch who had reduced me to poverty. I did not 
reproach her, for it is written — " The poor is hated 
even of his own neighbor, but the rich hath many 
friends." — Human nature hath not changed a jot in 
this respect since the days of Solomon. The world 
said she acted wisely. 

" ' I left the city, but not without a sigh at having 
discovered that my vision, though so near com- 
pletion, was not to be realized in the mercantile 
world. As I trudged along I consoled myself by 
reflecting that even in the midst of prosperity, I 
had no other actual enjoyment than sleep when I 
was weary and food when hungry. Every other 
was deceitful and illusory. Then why should I 
complain, for I shall be able to command a crust of 
bread and a pallet of straw, even in the most abject 
situation ; nature requires no more ; and possessing 



THE VISIONARY. 281 

these, tlie wealtli of worlds cannot add to my happi- 
ness — " Better is a little with the fear of the Lord, 
than great treasure and trouble therewith." 

" ' I had been in affluence long enough to discover 
that prosperity is attended with a greater crowd of 
afflictions that adversity. It affords the means of 
gratification to every human passion, while adversity 
closes the heart to the follies of the world, and points 
out the vanity of human wishes. The one pursues 
objects that are attained with difficulty, and when 
attained, frequently yield disgust to repay the labor 
of pursuit, while the other enjoys the sweets of life 
in every difficulty overcome, and encounters those 
which it is necessary to surmount in order to pro- 
mote happiness. Again I exclaimed — " Better is a 
little, with the fear of the Lord, than great treasure 
and trouble therewith." Poverty points out the 
straight path to true wisdom." 

" ' I entered my native village at sun-set, weary 
and forlorn. Yery little change had taken place 
during my absence, and I felt a peculiar interest in 
every object that presented itself. How pleasingly 
melancholy are the feelings we experience in visiting 
the place of our birth in adversity. The recollection 
of former days rushed in more vivid colours on my 



282 THE VISIONARY. 

dejected spirit, as I received the cordial greeting of 
the friends of my childhood, and I felt convinced 
that my air-built castles at length had found a firm 
foundation on the spot that first gave rise to them. 

" ' Before I made choice of a future pursuit I nar- 
rowly investigated the lot of those who appeared to 
enjoy most purely the blessings of the world, and 
resolved to tread in the path of one who had the 
reputation of being happy. The lot of a neigh- 
bouring farmer delighted me. I observed that he 
rose with the sun, his body full of health and vigor, 
and his mind untainted with the corruption of the 
world, to cultivate the soil which God had bestowed 
upon him. This, I exclaimed, has been the osten- 
sible duty of man since his expulsion from Eden ; 
there is no pursuit more innocent, it yields all that 
nature requires, and injures no one. At evening 
when the labor of the day is over, he returns to his 
cottage ; his blooming wife hastens to meet him 
with smiles and caresses, while the rosy offspring of 
health and innocence, impede his anxious steps 
until the kiss is given ! I will get married and 
cultivate the earth, for this is the only sure road to 
happiness, and fortune's favours extended beyond 



THE VISIONARY. 283 

tMs prove tlie severest affliction, as I have already 
experienced. 

^' ' I continued, ' the burden of the world is on the 
wealthy and not on the poor man. The one has an 
artificial station to fulfil, the other but a natural 
one. The one kis a thousand ideal wants to gratify, 
without the abihty to divine the method of doing it, 
whereas the other hears but the wants of nature, 
who at the same time points out the simplest 
manner of satisfying them. Yes, the burden of the 
world is on the wealthy and not on the poor man, 
for the one expects every thing from the world, and 
the world expects very little from the other. 

*" I now made choice of the partner of my fate, 
to whom in due season I was married, and having 
rented the farm where I was born, in course of a 
few years, by dint of industry I succeeded in 
stocking it to my satisfaction. I now resolved to 
be happy. — I rose with the sun, and whistled at my 
daily task, for I laboured for her whom I loved 
with the utmost tenderness. We had three children ; 
I watched over them and loved them as my parents 
had watched and loved me. They died in their 
infancy, and I mourned their loss in the bitterness 
of a broken spirit; but I have often thought 



284 THE VISIONARY. 

wlietlier the tears I slied on their graves, were as 
scalding hot as those I wrung from my aged parents' 
hearts when I forsook them. Even thus, had they 
lived, might they have repaid my tenderness. If 
so, God was merciful, in taking them and in sparing 
me. « 

" ' Still my heart was comparatively cheerful in 
the midst of my struggles for bread, and I continued 
to contemplate my vision of bliss with the same 
hope as the shipwrecked mariner the symbol of the 
covenant, after a tempest ; but as my wife was the 
keystone of the arch, the dreamy fabric was fre- 
quently shaken to the foundation. — In my own 
mind I had prescribed her line of conduct, but as 
she was not gifted with intuitive forecast, she knew 
not, and, perhaps, cared not how I wished her to 
act. In the grief of my disappointment I frequently 
sighed, — " No blooming wife runs to welcome my 
return after the labors of the day over ; no rosy 
offspring impede my anxious steps until the kiss is 
given." 

" ' I became discontented, and entered upon the 
duties of the day with disgust instead of cheerful- 
ness, for I labored for one incapable of feeling my 
affection, or estimating the worth of my exertions* 



THE VISIONARY. 285 

There was a flame within my bosom that preyed 
upon my life, and would of itself have worn me to 
the grave — but one trial was still remaining to con- 
firm the vanity of human prediction and complete 
the load of mental suffering. My farm was now 
neglected, and when the horrors of poverty sur- 
rounded me, the death-blow came. My wife, who 
had given me daily proof of her ingratitude and 
aversion, gave me a fatal one of her loss of chastity. 
0, God ! the bare recollection dissolves the frozen 
blood of age, and forces the few remaining drops, 
scalding hot, from the withered fibres of a broken 
heart ! / heheld the viper who had stung me to the 
soul^ coiling in the hosom of her paramour — the scene 
deprived me of reason — ! that I had continued so, 
for when I returned to my senses, the hapless 
wretch was weltering in his blood at my feet — the 
victim of his crime and my revenge. 

" ' I went forth and surrendered myself into the 
hands of justice. The offended law must be 
appeased ! But laws insufficient to redress injuries, 
beget self-avengers, and too often make victims of 
the injured. I was tried and convicted of murder 
in the second degree, and sentenced to ten years 
imprisonment, part of the time in the solitary cells. 



286 THE VISIONARY. 

I shall not attempt to describe to you tlie horrors 
of a dungeon, as tTie picture would not represent 
my own but the sufferings of my fellow prisoners — 
for me it bad no terrors. He wbo bas placed bis 
happiness on this world must necessarily be wretched 
when deprived of the power of enjoying it ; but he 
whom the world has deprived of happiness can feel 
but little regret at being removed from the scene of 
affliction. I had now time for reflection, and the 
vanity of my earthly pursuits flashed upon my 
brain. My life had been spent in pursuit of the 
vision of my youth ; in struggling to realize scenes 
which could only exist in imagination, and which 
led me to wretchedness and disappointment. I had 
lived for others and not for myself. I now dis- 
covered how very few were the real wants of 
human nature ; and on recurring to my past life, I 
was astonished to observe how severe a tax the 
world imposes on its votaries, for instead of having 
the courage to live for ourselves, we live for the 
rest of the world. At the expiration of my sentence, 
finding I could be of little service to mankind, I 
retired to the wilderness, well convinced that man- 
kind could be of as little service to me. I here 
have every thing that the world afforded me in the 



THE VISIONARY. 287 

briglitest hours — food and rest — witliout tlie unceas- 
ing agitation of mind and body, that preyed upon 
my life ; and removed from temptation, I mourn 
over the follies and weakness of my nature, and 
strive to make amends for the past errors. And, 
though all my earthly hopes proved to be of such 
stuft* as dreams are made of, there is one remaining 
that this world cannot take away, and it renders 
even the pauper's brow more beautiful than a kingly 
diadem — " The hoary head is a crown of glory if it 
be found in the way of righteousness." And to 
such it is promised — " Thine age shall be clearer 
than the noon day ; thou shalt shine forth, thou 
shalt be as the morning." ' " 



288 THE WIDOW INDEED. 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 



" She that is a widow indeed, and desolate, trusteth in God, and continueth in 
supplications and prayers, night and day." 

Poor old Miriam ! We beliold objects in cliild- 
hood that remain our inseparable companions 
tbrougb life, whose lineaments are still fresh in 
memory, though myriads of intervening things may 
have passed away like shadows. Such is the impres- 
sion made upon my mind by the patient creature 
whose humble career I am about to record. 

Miriam's parents were too unobtrusive to awaken 
malevolence, and too independent to apprehend 
oppression. She was their only child. Possessed 
of intellect, they afforded her every opportunity of 
cultivating it, and with their virtuous Example before 
her, she attained the years of womanhood, lovely 
and beloved. Gray-haired men still speak in rap- 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 289 

tures of her joutliful beauty, and deny tliat tlie 
present age can produce her paragon. True, it 
sounds strange to hear her queen-like figure, raven 
hair, and pearly teeth enlarged upon by decrepid 
age, sans teeth, sans hair, sans every thing; but 
where breathes the artist can portray in such glow- 
ing colors as memory, when she places before the 
eyes of the aged their themes of young delight 1 

Miriam married ; her choice was worthy of her, 
and he fully appreciated the good bestowed upon 
him. Their union was as one cloudless summer-day ; 
nor was their happiness confined to themselves ; its 
influence was felt wherever they appeared, for no 
one ever received at their door the answer given at 
the coming of the bridegroom — " not so ; lest there 
be not enough for us and you." 

Their union was blest with an only daughter. 
Their cup of joy was filled without one dash of bit- 
ter, and daily thanks to the Fountain of all, hallowed 
their happiness. But " boast not thyself of to-mor- 
row, for thou knowest not what a day may bring 
forth." 

They had been married some ten years when her 

husband died. In the spring time of life when 

earth laughs out as the primitive Eden, few reflect 

19 



290 THE WIDOW INDEED. 

that the winged hours are incessantly working a 
fearful change, and that the time must arrive when 
the magic spell will be broken, and nothing remain 
but " the flaming sword that turneth every way" to 
bar man from his lost happiness. 

Miriam anticipated the blow as little as others, 
but she was better prepared than most to meet it. 
She knew from whose lips the mandate issued; 
"that whatsoever He doeth it shall be forever ; noth- 
ing can be put to it nor any thing taken from it." 

She had watched by the bedside of her companion 
with that unwearied devotion which a true wife 
alone can display. She had marked the gradual 
inroads of disease, but continued to hope on, for 
■while he breathed, it did not occur to her how nearly 
allied life is to death ; how brief the passage from 
the one to the other — a single respiration and no 
more. But when the last sigh was breathed she 
awoke to a full sense of her loneliness. He was all 
to her on earth and now nothing remained to the 
future but the recollection of departed joys. When 
the paroxysm had subsided, she arose — grief and 
resignation struggling for mastery — she clasped her 
hands, and turning her tearful eyes toward heaven, 
meekly articulated — "Not as I will, but as thou 
wilt." 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 291 

Years passed away, for time pursues the same 
even course wlietlier tliis world smiles or weeps. 
Her spirit did not slirink from the severity of her 
trials, for there were duties to be performed, hopes 
iinerushed — and the human heart, like the dove of 
peace when flitting over a deluged world, bears up, 
trusting still to find the solitary resting-place amidst 
universal desolation. 

Her husband had left sufficient for the support of 
herself and child. The widow devoted her days to 
the instruction of little Mary, and she was rewarded, 
by seeing her as she approached womanhood sur- 
pass a fond mother's anticipations. She was a deli- 
cate flower, nurtured in an atmosphere where no 
breeze passed over her rudely, but where all around 
was fragrance and sunshine. Such plants soon pine 
away and die when removed from their native soil. 

Mary knew nothing of the world beyond her 
mother's threshold. Her young imagination peopled 
it with such beings as her own kind mother. In 
her mind all had their peaceful homes — the universe 
all love and harmony — the flowers, the streams, the 
hills unfailing fountains of delight — all joyous, and 
she the most gladsome being in a joyful world. 
Morn but awoke her to twitter her light-hearted 



292 THE WIDOW INDEED. 

song like a summer bird, and at night slie hymned 
His praise in the same innocent strain of rejoicing, 
while her glad mother's heart overflowed with grati- 
tude for the blessing conferred. They indeed were 
happy. 

Happy ! If you have entrusted your happiness in 
the hands of your fellow creature, await the rising 
of the morrow's sun. Call no man happy until 
death. He alone is happy who cares not how soon 
the sun may set forever — and he himself arise be- 
yond the influence of the sun. That man may dream 
that he is happy. Dream on thou glorious dreamer ! 

There lived in the village a young man named 
Mark Moreland. He was handsome, and possessed 
taste for books and music, and abounding in animal 
spirits, he was usually the victor in all the village 
sports. As he wore his laurels proudly, the young 
men envied him, but the aged shook their heads, 
and prophesied that Mark would come to no good, 
for he was idle. 

Mary's beauty did not escape his notice, and her 
mother's little possessions rendered her more attrac- 
tive. It was his custom when returning from 
shooting or fishing, to stop at the widow's cottage, 
and to present her with the choicest of his spoils. 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 293 

He would read to tliem of evenings, and tlie notes 
of his flute liarmonizing with the clear joyous voice 
of little Mary, often arrested the step of the passing 
villager. To the inexperienced girl he appeared 
to be all he assumed; not so in the eyes of her 
mother. 

Mary loved him with that depth of devotion the 
human heart can feel but once. Imagination had 
clothed the object of her idolatry with all the 
attributes of perfection. — Young love bends to 
an idol of its own creation, and zealously threads 
the universe in pursuit of the richest offerings to 
increase its ideal beauty ; but when the charm is 
broken, and the clouds of incense dispelled, the 
object is frequently found to be as repulsive as the 
ass's head around which Titania entwined her fairy 
garlands. 

The widow discovered with grief the bias of her 
child's affections, and used all persuasion to estrange 
her feelings. She referred to their peaceful and 
happy condition, and deprecated a change. " He is 
idle," said she " and such seldom obtain the respect 
of their fellow men. Our lives have been simple 
and harmless, his the reverse. He is not of us — a 
scoffer at those things we hold most sacred, and 



294 THE WIDOW INDEED. 

remember the ingrate to his God is never trusted 
by bis fellow man — not even by his fellow scoffer.'' 

The scoffer will be somewhat astonished, if after 
all, the things he scoffed at should turn out to be 
the eternal truth, and the wisdom of ages has been 
exceedingly favorable on that side of the question. 
Scoff on, thou fool ! You first assume to yourself 
the attributes of Omniscience, and then impudently 
deny that Omniscience can exist elsewhere than in 
your own brain. Thou know-all-worm ! it is possi- 
ble, by chance, you have missed a figure. 

Mary wept, for it was the first time she had given 
her mother pain ; the first time she believed her to 
be in error, still she appreciated her motives and 
struggled to comply with her wishes. It was a con- 
flict of deep-rooted feelings — a strife between duty 
and love. It is unnecessary to add which proved the 
victor. 

Aware that Miriam would never consent to their 
tmion, Mark persuaded the infatuated girl to be 
married privately. It was her first act of disobe- 
dience ; she no longer felt herself the guileless being 
she had been up to that hour, it seemed to her that 
she had changed nature with some abhorred and 
guilty thing, and Mark endeavored in vain to as- 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 295 

suage tlie poignancy of lier feelings. Slie liad de- 
ceived her mother — confidence had ceased to exist 
— and she trembled as a criminal in her presence. 

When the unhappy tidings were divulged, the 
widow wept in secret over her blighted hopes, but 
not a word of reproach fell from her lips to embitter 
the chalice her deluded child had prepared for her 
own lips. She received Mark in her humble dwell- 
ing and treated him as her son. 

Mark's conduct underwent a thorough change, 
and Miriam imagined that he had seen the errors of 
his ways, and turned from them. In the simplicity 
of her heart, she said — " this my son was dead and is 
alive again, he was lost and is found." 

Mark having gained her confidence proposed to 
embark in business, as he was weary of an idle life. 
But he had not the means, and he applied to Miriam 
to assist him. — Mary added her entreaties, and the 
widow pledged her little all to promote the welfare 
of her children. The result might have been fore- 
seen. Inexperienced — reckless — self-willed — in a 
few years he exhausted the widow's means and 
deeply involved all who trusted in his visionary 
speculations. — He became bankrupt ; the widow 
destitute. 



296 THE WIDOW INDEED. 

The descent to adversity is easy, but to retrace 
our steps over obstructions which we had, ourselves, 
thrown in the pathway, require energy possessed by 
few. Bad became worse daily with Mark Moreland. 
The amusements of his boyhood assumed the fea- 
tures of vices in his riper years. The budding of 
sin, in a child, to some appears attractive, but when 
matured — repulsive. — The most poisonous weed, in 
spring time may produce a gorgeous flower, but in 
autumn the seed is death. 

The widow seeing all was lost, trusted to her own 
resources. She opened a school, that the children 
of the village might benefit by her moral and intel- 
lectual culture, and she maintain her independence. 
There was a purity of purpose within her threshold 
which creates an atmosphere the impure cannot 
breathe. Mark returning from his midnight orgies 
to behold the quiet simplicity of the widow's home, 
felt, as did the rebellious angels when the subli- 
mated atmosphere of heaven drove them mad. 

Mary had a child, a boy, some two years old. 
Late one night Mark returned from his companions, 
ill-humored and intoxicated. He would fondle with 
the boy, but Mary, alarmed for the child's safety, 
opposed his wishes. He snatched the boy from her 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 297 

arms and fell witli tlie infant beneatli him. From 
that day the child, who had given promise of all 
that partial parents anticipate from their first born, 
became an idiot. Mark was now a changed and 
melancholy man. He daily witnessed the desolation 
he had occasioned, no part of which came within his 
power to alleviate. He was chaiaed, a hopeless 
spectator of a scene that drove him wild. The va- 
cant stare of his beloved boy — the silent but ill-con- 
cealed repinings of his wife, that were evidently 
hurrying her to an untimely grave; the conflict 
between resignation and despair which was laying 
desolate the widow's heart, strewed the pathway to 
duty with thorns, and the purer he became the more 
poignant became repentance. Destitute of the means 
to relieve their necessities ; too infirm of purpose to 
contemplate the result of his own vices, he fled from 
the ruin in its desolation, selfishly hoping to find a 
Lethe for remorse in the hurried vortex of a heart- 
less world. 

Deserted by her husband, and reproaching her- 
self for the trials her disobedience had imposed upon 
her mother, Mary wasted to the grave with a disease 
that knows no cure. — If the body be afflicted, there 
is hope for extraneous remedy ; if the mind sickens, 



298 THE WIDOW INDEED. 

it must be its own pTiysician. Mary watched over 
her idiot cliild — sat statue-like beside lier patient 
motber — seldom spoke — never smiled — and died. 
The innocent to die tbus — of self-reproacb and 
broken-hearted, is indeed, the Human agony of the 
cross and crown of thorns. 

Miriam was now destitute and alone, but she 
knew that " he who faints in the day of adversity, 
his strength is small." Her time was devoted to 
her little school and unwearied efforts to infuse light 
into the mind of her benighted offspring. At length 
he could imitate the sound of a few words, but not 
for the purpose of imparting ideas. She took him 
repeatedly to his mother's grave, and taught him to 
pronounce the word — mother, and kneel in the atti- 
tude of invoking a benediction. She taught him 
to repeat the Lord's Prayer, word by word, as it fell 
from her lips, and though its import made no im- 
pression upon his mind, still, morning and night, he 
prayed with as much outward zeal as many do who 
possess all the advantages of the light of revelation. 
The principal difference consisted in this — he prayed 
in their lowly chamber, with no other witness than 
his grandmother and his God, while many seldom 
invoke the attention of the Creator without requiring 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 299 

a crowded congregation to bear witness. Why hide 
your candle under a busliel ! Let tlie meek and lowly 
behold with what audacity pride and ostentation can 
approach the Deity— as if there were an aristocracy 
in heaven. 

A few years rolled on rapidly. One evening, as 
the boy was paying his accustomed homage at his 
mother's grave — zealously repeating the overwhelm- 
ing appeal of deity to deity— too often an unwinged 
prayer, and, doubtless, at times, a malediction self- 
invoked upon the head of the Pharisee, the boy, as 
he arose, beheld a man standing beside him. 

" Whose grave is that, my child, you are kneel- 
ing on ?" 

" My mother sleeps here." 

The stranger read the simple inscription on the 
head-stone — shuddered, and inquired in a tremulous 
voice, 

" Your father — do you know your father ?" 

" Our father who art in heaven," began the boy, 
standing erect, and with uplifted hands — 

"His name?" 

" Hallowed be thy name." 

" I mean your father." 

" I have no other father." 



300 THE WIDOW INDEED. 

The thnnder of heaven could not so have shaken 
the iron nerves of that strong man, as did the simple 
reply of the idiot-boy ; but was it not thunder of 
heaven that spoke in that small voice — "I have no 
other father." 

" Come, come," said the boy, taking him kindly 
by the hand — and the unnerved man suffered him- 
self to be led away as if he were both maimed and 
blind. Marvel not at that; men of the sternest 
minds, at times, allow themselves to be led away by 
idiots. 

They reached the widow's cottage as she was in 
the act of dismissing her little school. They paused, 
and overheard the admonition and blessing she be- 
stowed upon her pupils, about to leave her for the 
night, while each shook hands with her as if impa- 
tient for the coming morrow. The man bowed his 
head and wept, as if he were a child again. Chil- 
dren always make good men feel as children ; and 
at times they restore the blurred record of childhood 
so vividly to the minds of the impure, that they wish 
they were children again. But as that is impossible, 
let them indulge in a prospective view of their 
second childhood — early vice in the seed. 

They entered the cottage — Miriam was surprised 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 301 

at beholding a stranger thus introduced ; she turned 
her face toward him — recognised him and clasping 
her hands, sunk, upon a chair exclaiming, " Mark 
Moreland I" 

Where she sat was the place where the boy was 
accustomed to pray of nights. He ran to her and 
knelt, saying, " Mother, I pray as Christ prayed ;" a 
phrase she had taught him. He commenced, and 
coming to the passage, " Forgive us our trespasses, 
as we forgive those who trespass against us" — which 
the widow had taught him to pronounce with the 
solemnity due to its importance — she looked into 
the eyes of the contrite man, then into the secret 
recesses of her own heart, and the prayer, passing 
from the untutored lips of an idiot child, sunk more 
deeply than ever before, though aided by theatrical 
gesture — pomp — and the studied elocution of the 
preacher. Mark was forgiven as far as human 
infirmity can forgive. 

During his absence he had acquired some pro- 
perty. His habits had undergone a change, and all 
with whom he had any dealings pronounced him an 
upright and industrious man. — Yet he felt himself 
a vagrant on earth, without the prospect of ever 
becoming a denizen of heaven. 



802 THE WIDOW INDEED. 

The widow received liim as her son, and lie 
employed himself to render their home the abode of 
peace. True — it was lighted np with genial sun- 
shine, but bright rays never played there. Clouds 
seldom intruded, except upon Mark's soul, when 
he contemplated the vacant stare of his child. He 
had brought him into the light of life only to give 
him darkness. Morning and evening he beheld 
the boy appealing to his God in the darkness of his 
intellect, and arise from his prayers, happy. The 
thought occurred — I have intellect of which I was 
once proud, yet stand aloof from the path that leads 
to Him who gave it ! He knelt down a humbled 
man beside his idiot son, and prayed. The boy 
smiled to see him pray, and patted him on the head 
in imitation of his grandmother's benediction, and 
ever after led him to their bedside, and prayed 
together. Truly, in this instance, "the child was 
father of the man," though not in the sense the 
poet intended. 

All nature is at times oracular, speaking in a voice 
too plain to be misunderstood. The earth, the sky, 
the ocean, are unwearied and eloquent teachers. 
The rustling of the autumnal leaf may awaken 
faculties that would slumber on the sea-beach — ^the 



THE WIDOW INDEED. 303 

rippling brook babbles its lesson, and even tbe 
stroke of the dark iron upon tbe dull flint, may 
elicit a spark sufficient for some minds ; man knows 
not when nor whence he may imbibe the semi- 
annual idea that expands the soul, until darkness 
becomes luminous, and light gleams through chaos. 
God's ministers are legion. 

We move in circles. Miriam's unoffending life 
had promised all, and yet she suffered all. Her 
child died, harmless ; had she lived longer, would 
she so have died ? The widow infused a glimmer 
of light into a blank mind, which guided the foot- 
steps of a cast-away. His sacrifice of the unof- 
fending had worked out his own salvation. Good 
came out of evil. The purest on earth was sacrificed 
for the sins of man, and human nature should 
strive to imitate the example. — The greatest evil 
has conferred on man the greatest good. 

The boy lived and died a blank, still he was born 
for good. The widow soon followed him to the 
grave, having fulfilled her duty; and Mark is 
living to this day a grey -haired wealthy man — and 
of course, respected by all ; and yet he would give 
all earth to be respected by himself and God. 



304 THE RECLUSE. 



THE EECLUSE OF BLACK LOG MOUNTAIN. 



Ox a sultry day in the month of July, business 
called me to visit the village of Shirleysburg, situ- 
ated on a level piece of ground, rising gradually 
from the banks of Aughwick creek, which is sepa- 
rated from the town by cultivated meadows. A long 
and wide street, or rather the public road, lined on 
each side with plain but substantial dwelling houses, 
to each of which is attached a sufficiency of ground 
for gardens and out-houses, makes the town, in all 
respects, conformable to the generality of Pennsyl- 
vania villages in its appearance and structure. The 
creek pursues a northerly course, and on its western 
side the lofty summit of Jack's mountain frowns in 
gloomy majesty over a narrow valley. On the east 
of the village, the sandy ridge breaks the prospect, 
and seems as a step designed by nature to enable 
the adventurous traveller to reach the rugged and 
romantic heights of the Black Log Mountain, whose 



THE RECLUSE. 305 

precipitous sides, as yet undivested of the forests of 
ages, bound the view for many miles in a continued 
undulating chain of hills, which rise behind the vil- 
lage, casting their depths of shade over the well 
cultivated vale of Germany. 

There is something peculiarly pleasing in arriving 
at the end of a journey, especially if travelling 
alone, or if little accidents on the road have in any 
degree destroyed the equanimity of our temper. 
Unusual heat of the weather creates lassitude, clouds 
of dust are very incommoding ; the careless tread 
of an animal ever ready to obey the voice of his 
rider, and to quicken his pace over a rough road 
may cause a momentary stumble, which often pro- 
vokes the goad of a spur, the lash of a whip, or at 
least an angry jerk of the bridle, accompanied with 
an exclamation of impatience and discontent. The 
unexpected sound of a loose shoe as it strikes the 
rolling flint, gives indication of trouble and delay, 
and all thoughts are banished save those of a smith 
shop, or a lame horse in default of one — the increased 
jingling of the receding nails are the death knells of 
expiring patience, hopeless glances are repeatedly 
cast at the broken hoof, until a sudden, overpower- 
ing rattling is succeeded by a soft tread, and a full 

20 



306 THE RECLUSE. 

conviction tliat the unlucky slioe is cast, when the 
remains of good humor are apt to be cast with it. 
These, and many other trifling causes, powerfully 
operate on the bile of the equestrian traveller ; but 
the end of his journey approaches, and the house of 
his friend, or the sign of his host, appears within 
his reach, and all frowns are quickly dispelled ; the 
tired animal partakes of the returning satisfaction 
of his rider, and moves with a brisker step, whilst 
imagination depicts the hearty welcome, the good 
cheer, and the pleasures of rest and ablution to the 
weary traveller. 

With feelings of this nature, I approached Augh- 
wick creek, over which is thrown a huge covered 
bridge, whose ponderous timbers and iron-work 
support a roof, rising and falling like the waves of 
the sea, bidding defiance to all rules of architecture, 
and conveying the preposterous idea of expending 
hundreds of dollars to save a penny worth of floor- 
ing. After crossing the bridge I soon discovered 
the ancient site of Fort Shirley. Long previous to 
our revolution, a block-house and outworks had 
been erected, as well to secure the few inhabitants 
from the predatory incursions of the red men of the 
forest, as to form a chain of posts extending through 



THE RECLUSE. 307 

the State, on the frontier of the settlements of the 
agricultural adventurers of early days. The British 
general was honored by his troops in having his 
name given to the strong-hold, and though the 
plough and the harrow have long since levelled all 
traces of a warlike station, yet the village still 
retains the ancient name, and the old men can still 
point out to the curious inquirer, the spot where 
once the brave dreamed Of glory, whilst wakeful 
sentinels paced the confines of a gloomy forest in 
constant fear of the deadly rifle aim, or tomahawk 
stroke of the concealed savage of the wilderness. 

The village school-house stands at the entrance of 
the town ; it was noon, and the busy hum within 
announced that the hour of relaxation from the 
abstruse study of spelling-books, and the unknown 
numbers of the rule of three, and temporary relief 
from the terrors of the awe-commanding birch, had 
happily arrived to the rising generation. A little 
stream of water crossed the road, rapidly hastening 
to join its tributary rill to the Aughwick, and by its 
strong current to be borne along through many 
channels until the whole should be lost in the world 
of waters. And this, thou.ght I, as a group of happy 
urchins rushed from the school-room, is an emblem 



308 THE RECLUSE. 

of human life ! Youth is like the mountain spring, 
bright and pure at its source, delightful to view, and 
yielding its refreshing benefits in silence and 
modesty. Leaving its native bed to seek its pas- 
sage through the vale, it murmurs over rocks, 
thunders down precipices, and winding its devious 
course over unforeseen obstructions, it now becomes 
a morass, and now a perturbed and polluted stream ; 
the rivulet presses forward, and each step from the 
fountain adds a stain upon its purity, until swelled 
by descending rains, and mingled with the streams 
of the valley, the mountain spring is known no 
longer, but a rapid torrent hastens to lose itself in 
the bosom of the ocean. Such is the varied passage 
of man through life : pure at his outset, ambition 
points out the enticing valley below him; rocks 
and quicksands in vain obstruct his way ; he passes 
onward, but the stream has partaken of the nature 
of the obstructions ; the evils of life descend upon 
him ; the tide of contending passions hurry him 
into the vortex of the world, whence he rushes on 
to the ocean of eternity ! 

My horse had stopped midway of the stream to 
drink : I had an opportunity of examining the group 
before me. The town children were running, or 



THE RECLUSE. 309 

rather jumping, through the dusty road, with all the 
wild hilarity of unrestrained joy, towards their 
respective homes. Near the road a large apple tree 
afforded an excellent shade for the children who 
lived at a distance, and who were now preparing 
their frugal meal of pie and cakes, each from a little 
basket, and spreading their cheer on the grass be- 
neath the tree. Between two logs of the school- 
house, a long, narrow frame, extended the whole 
breadth of the house ; this had been covered with 
sheets of copy-books, in place of glass lights — a 
kind of "lucus a non lucendo." Some broken 
sheets disclosed the faces of three unfortunate delin- 
quents, who were peeping at, to them, forbidden 
pleasures, for, although the door was open, they 
were kept in until the frown of the master should 
relax, and the welcome sound issue from his lips, 
"Go!" — although an admonition never failed to 
accompany the starting word, "Mind you behave 
yourselves better after this." 

The master made his appearance as I approached 
the door, and I observed that he was in conversa- 
tion with an elderly, magisterial looking man, who 
was about to leave the school-house. They were 
standing in the doorway, and I overheard part of 



310 THE RECLUSE. 

their disconrse, as the latter took his leave — " No 
one but a crazy woman would live as she does ; I 
tell you she must be looked after; she must be 
examined ; she may become a burden on the town- 
ship ; it will never do, I tell you."—" Well, sir, I 
will accompany you to the mountain to-morrow, and 
I will give you a holiday for that purpose ; we shall 
then know all about her." 

I rode forward, not without some curiosity respect- 
ing the mysterious subject of the conversation, which 
was increased by a question put by the daughter of 
the stranger, who was waiting until her father should 
leave the school. 

" And does she live all alone on the mountain ? 
I wonder who she is, father." 

" That's exactly what I wish to know myself" 
And that's what I will know before I leave this 
place, said I, mentally, for I began to feel myself 
just as much interested as people generally are when 
part of a mystery is disclosed, which shows that 
something worth having is withheld. 

With this determination, I alighted at the door of 
the inn, and was cordially welcomed by my old 
host, whose gouty limbs did not permit him to leave 
his chair, but his smiling countenance, hearty salu- 



• THE RECLUSE. 811 

tation, and ontstretclied hand, told me I was at 
liome. 

I soon concluded my business, and after having 
dined, I ordered a bottle of wine to be placed in a 
cooler and a cigar on the table, and addressed my- 
self to my landlord on the subject of the mysterious 
woman of the mountain. He could only inform me 
that she was the subject of much curiosity, that few 
people had visited her, and she would not speak to 
any one except the schoolmaster, who had twice 
been to her lonely habitation, and perhaps knew 
more about her than he chose to mention. But, 
added my host, I will send for the master, and no 
doubt he will be pleased to communicate to you all 
he knows concerning the "mad woman of the 
mountain," as she is generally called. She surely 
can have no good reason for concealment now, as 
the overseers of the poor have spoken to the magis- 
trates on the subject, and the master has been already 
officially called on to disclose his knowledge of the 
stranger. And besides that, a glass of wine and a 
cigar are great promoters of a good understanding, 
and freedom of conversation; and, to conclude, as 
the master says, " in vino Veritas," that is, as I take 
it, " when wine is in, wit is out." 



312 THE RECLUSE. 

I mucli approved of this measure, and in a few 
minutes the master made his appearance, and hav- 
ing learnt my determination to visit the mysterious 
stranger, politely offered to dismiss his school for 
the afternoon, and to accompany me to the hermi- 
tage of the Eecluse of Black Log Mountain. " It 
is," said the master, *'not only for the purpose of 
obhging you, but also to apprize the lonely inhabi- 
tant of the mountain, that to-morrow the arm of 
civil authority will be extended to protect her ; that 
is, in other words, if she refuses to give a satisfac- 
tory account of herself, the law will presume her to 
be, what perhaps she is not, and send her to the 
house of correction as a vagrant, or trundle her out 
of the township as an intruder on its charitable 
funds." Having dismissed his school, the master 
returned, and one of my friends having joined us 
whilst we were finishing our wine the following 
brief statement, concerning the Eecluse, was made 
by the master ; 

" The unknown female first made her appearance 
in the vale of Germany early in the spring of last 
year; she was well clothed, but appeared much 
dejected, no one knew from whence she came, and 
she would not disclose to any one her name or for- 



THE RECLUSE. 313 

mer place of residence : althougli certainly in want, 
for she liad no money, she would not accept of any 
gratuitous offering, but demanded to be set to work 
and received her wages. It was only at two or three 
farm houses that she would ask for employment, 
and although her habitation is but three miles dis- 
tant, she has never been in the town but once. As 
soon as she had accumulated a little money, she pur- 
chased flour and meat from one of the farmers and 
disappeared. For some time it was not known 
where she had gone, until she again made her 
appearance in the valley, demanding employment. 
To every question relative to her place of conceal- 
ment she refused an answer, and at times spoke 
incoherently, and apparently abstracted from the 
knowledge of the transactions around her — but 
still she labored assiduously, received her pay, again 
bought provisions, and again disappeared ; a third 
time she came into the settlement, and conducted 
herself in the same manner; but suspicion being 
now awakened, as soon as she had purchased pro- 
visions, she was watched and followed at a distance 
until she was seen to enter the thicket of Black Log 
mountain, at a spot where no path was known to 
lead through the forest. A party of the neighbors 



314 THE RECLUSE. 

assembled, and after tlie utmost difficulty succeeded 
in clambering over rocks, and through locust thick- 
ets, until they discovered something like a path, by 
the twigs being broken from the bushes on each 
side. Pursuing this until they came near the sum- 
mit of the mountain, they discovered a rude hut 
built of stones, on a shelf or rocky bench of the 
mountain, and in the hut the object of their search. 
She appeared more irritated than alarmed, and 
expressed her anger that her privacy should be 
broken in upon. But these good people had no 
motive save that of befriending her in their appa- 
rent curiosity. They were Germans, who seldom 
had communication out of their own immediate 
society with the rest of the world, and this may 
account for the knowledge of the conduct and habi- 
tation of the mysterious female remaining so long 
unknown to the rest of the inhabitants of this dis- 
trict. By the exertions of her friends, her dwelling 
was in some degree improved, and as no persuasion 
could induce her to leave the mountain, except when 
necessity drove her into the valley to seek for pro- 
visions, she was permitted to remain unmolested in 
her hermitage during the winter. She suffered 
much from the extreme cold of a most rigorous 



THE RECLUSE. 315 

season; and the terrors excited by wild beasts, as 
she has confessed to me, bad less effect on ber tban 
tbe dread of entering tbe habitation of human 
beings, unless she was compelled to do so by the 
mandates of hunger. I have twice been to see her, 
but the conversation I have had with her I am not 
at liberty to disclose, as she has made her communi- 
cations under the promise of secrecy. But I will 
conduct you to her dwelling, and as it is possible 
she may be as communicative to you as to myself, 
when she learns that the powers that he require her 
submission to their decrees, your visit may be pro- 
ductive of pleasure to yourself and of essential 
benefit to her." 

Our wine lasted just as long as the schoolmaster's 
tale, and we were still as dry as when he began. 
Whether this was owing to the weather, the heating 
tendency of the wine, the exsiccant quality of the 
cigars, or the dryness of the tale itself, I leave to my 
readers to determine. In the meanwhile we shall 
commence our walk towards the cave of the Eecluse 
of the Black Log Mountain. 

We passed through a lane dividing the fields 
adjoining the town, and having entered a deep 
ravine at its eastern extremity, our path ascended 



316 THE RECLUSE. 

the sandy ridge tlirougli a deep shade of lofty pines 
and oaks, the " monarchs of the forest." From the 
summit of a high ridge we could not obtain a view 
on either side of the valley, as the whole face of the 
hill was thickly covered with an impervious wood, 
and eastward the Black Log Mountain seemed to 
unite its base with the sandy ridge, whilst all below 
us was one deep black gulf of forest. 

We descended the hill by a precipitous, narrow, 
winding path, and over our heads the meeting 
branches of the underwood already cast the gloom 
of night upon our footsteps ; a gurgling stream of 
water ran at the foot of the ridge, and having crossed 
it on stepping stones, we immediately descried a 
substantial farm-house on the opposite bank. Hav- 
ing ascended the bank the effect was magical — a few 
minutes since, and with difficulty we sought our 
path through the darkness of the forest. We had 
crossed the Lethe, and although we did not drink 
of its waters, yet all recollection of dreary ways 
was at once lost as we emerged, in the glorious sun- 
shine of a summer's afternoon, into the Elysian 
prospect which lay before us. 

The beautiful vale of Germany extended to our 
left, presenting to the view as far as the eye could 



THE RECLUSE. 317 

reacTi, the well cultivated farms of its numerous 
and wealthy inhabitants. Small copses of wood 
separated the plantations of the proprietors, and in 
many instances a row of trees along the fence 
divided the fields, so that the whole country 
appeared like an irregularly laid out garden, whose 
beds are surrounded with evergreens. The country 
was burthened with the harvest, and in some fields, 
already the hand of man had partially gathered the 
kindly fruits from their parent earth. The yellow 
surface of the stubble interspersed with the thick 
shocks of grain ; the waving tops of the yet stand- 
ing patches of wheat now bending to the light 
breeze, and now falling before the sickle of the 
reaper ; the long line of industrious harvest men 
stretching through the field with military precision, 
and now stooping, and now rising, each intent on 
keeping pace and stroke with his leader; young 
women and little children gathering, binding, and 
gleaning, like beauty and innocence preserving 
what strength and labour had achieved; in some 
fields the happy groups of labourers enjoying their 
evening refreshment under the kindly shade of 
trees; and the beautiful long streaming green leaves 
of the Indian corn, shedding here and there a 



818 THE RECLUSE. 

verdant relief over tlie golden scene of the grain 
fields, altogetlier presented a picture wtiicli drew 
forth, exclamations of rapture from our little party. 
The deep pause which followed conviaced me that 
my companions felt as I did : the heart was softened 
and the soul elevated to give praise to the Dispenser 
of all good gifts for the enjoyment of rebellious man. 

We enjoyed this beautiful prospect for some 
minutes in silence, but as our path did not lie 
through the settlement we turned abruptly towards 
the mountain and pursued our course through an 
open wood until at the distance of half a mile, our 
progress was impeded by a swamp, on the farther 
side of which the pine clad heights abruptly rose 
from a bed of granite. Our guide after some 
reconnoitering discovered stepping stones irregu- 
larly laid across the swamp, and led the way to the 
rocky thicket which skirted the base of the Black 
Log Mountain. 

Having with some difficulty discovered an 
entrance through the thicket, our guide assured us 
that we were on the right path, which was only 
perceptible by means of the dead branches which 
had been broken and twisted from the bushes on 
either side, apparently as well to assist a person in 



THE RECLUSE. 319 



the difficult ascent, as to designate by wliicli way he 
might return in safety. The perpendicular height 
of the mountain is about a thousand feet above the 
level of the waters in the valley, and we had with 
considerable difficulty clambered our way about 
two-thirds up its precipitous sides, when our guide 
stopt and pointed above our heads to a rude 
structure of stones, which appeared to be heaped 
together without order, on the summit of a rocky 
shelf which jutted from the side of the hill. Two 
large trees against which the front of the building 
leaned, apparently prevented it from falling over 
the precipice; between the trees an opening in the 
wall served for an entrance, and in this aperture we 
descried a female, who by her movements in 
adjusting her dress, we conjectured had already 
discerned us. 

Our last successful effort in climbing, landed us 
on a flat piece of ground which surmounted the 
rocky precipice, and was covered with a few trees 
and low bushes. In the front, overhanging a steep 
descent, and preserved from destruction by two 
supporting pines, an irregular rheap of stones, 
rudely piled on each other, and covered on the top 
with pieces of bark stripped from the living trees, 



S20 THE RECLUSE. 

I 

composed the dwelling of the Kecluse. Behind the 
building, a few paces distant, the mountain rose in 
gloomy grandeur, and on one side a few yards of 
earth, now made bare by gathering the loose rocks 
for the walls of the hut, served as a garden, in 
which a few vegetables and herbs were growing. 
A little below the hut in front, a small hole in the 
ground, with sand in the depth, indicated that a 
spring at times flowed from it, but it was now dry ; 
a rude seat was constructed at the foot of one of the 
trees before the door, upon which, after saluting the 
Eecluse, I seated myself, as her taciturnity, and the 
circumstance of her remaining standing in the door 
of the hut with her back turned on us, did not lead 
lis to expect an invitation to enter. My com- 
panions seated themselves on the ground near me, 
and perhaps we had alarmed the Eecluse by our 
hasty approach, and the station we had taken, for 
she still continued inside her habitation, and spoke 
with her back towards us during our whole conver- 
sation. — Her bonnet was on her head, and her 
answers were at times indistinctly heard, but she 
always repeated them when required, and by de- 
grees resumed confidence, so that in the end I 
obtained admittance into the rugged apartment of 



THE RECLUSE. 321 

the solitary, and then conversed more freely face to 
face, but her position never was changed during 
our stay. 

I observed to her that we had come to visit her 
habitation, and were much surprised that she had 
chosen a spot so solitary, and so difficult of access, 
whilst the friendly inhabitants of a beautiful valley 
would be pleased to afford her accommodation and 
assistance. She answered — "I live here as well 
from choice as necessity, solitary spots are best for 
those whom tyranny or unkindness has driven 
from the world, and for those who have suffered by 
the world's duplicity, and have sought retirement as 
a relief from witnessing the professions of false 
friendship." 

I hope, said I, that in society neither of these 
disagreeable events has fallen to your lot. 

" Both — I have experienced both — false friends 
professed much and then deserted me ; the world 
believed much, and I was excluded social communi- 
cation. — I might have died — for I felt that I was 
alone in the world — pride saved me — I despised 
falsehood, and pitied the credulity of the world — I 
sought for solitude, and am happy that I have here 

found it." 

21 



322 THE RECLUSE. 

*' But it is not proper to flj from society because 
disappointment in friendship has been experienced, 
or because the shafts of calumny have wounded 
reputation ; besides, you are unprotected in this 
wild and dreary mountain." 

" True : Heaven knows I am here unprotected, 
but I was not less so in the midst of society — I 
have no friend left — why should I say no friend 
hft^ I never had a friend. — Yes — my father !" — 
here she wept bitterly — "but he is dead — or dead 
to me. I shall never see him more — I could return 
to the world for a moment to see my father, — but 
that is impossible — my Father, oh ! my Father !" 

I endeavoured to soothe her by observing that if 
she would give us any clue by which we could 
obtain information respecting her parent, we would 
exert ourselves, and had no doubt of success. — " Im- 
possible — they would have sent me word — I know 
he is dead — they brought me to see him die — I 
know not how I left him — But — my brain — no 
recollection — Thank God 'tis over and I am happy 
here." 

I suffered her to pause for some time to recover 
herself; I perceived that the string of insanity had 
been touched, and I wished the chord to cease to 



THE RECLUSE. S23 

vibrate. I told her that I was much fatigued, and 
wished for a draught of water. She pointed to the 
sandy basin below the hut, and observed, "Like 
the rest of my false friends, the spring has also 
left me." 

I asked permission to enter the hut, which was 
granted. The building was about six feet in length 
and four feet broad, composed of rude stones 
heaped upon each other without cement, so that 
wind and rain could not be excluded, even were 
there no apertures ; but there was one door in 
front together with a small opening for a window 
and another doorway, at one end, opposite to some- 
thing like a hearth, upon which some embers were 
burning, and above, the smoke escaped by reason 
of one half of the top of the building being left 
uncovered. I could scarcely stand upright in the 
centre of the hut where the roof was highest, and 
there was no article of furniture, except a box 
apparently holding provisions. There was no bed 
— ^the floor was the bare earth — a bundle of clothing 
was carelessly thrown in one corner, and a few iron 
materials for cooking hung against the wall. 

I had now an opportunity of examining the 
solitary. She appeared to be about thirty-five 



324 THE RECLUSE. 

years old, not handsome, but with regular features, 
deeply tinctured with a cast of melancholy, and her 
face and hands bearing the effects of an embrowning 
sun, and a rigid winter. Her clothing consisted of a 
gown of coarse home made cloth, which covered her 
to the throat, and long sleeves ; a coarse bonnet of 
plaited straw, and a pair of men's shoes completed 
her dress. 

Comfortless, indeed, said I, is your dwelling. Is 
it possible that you can sleep here on the earth ? 
and how could you endure the severity of the 
winter? the wind, the snow and rain have free 
access ? 

" I sleep on my parent earth — would to heaven I 
could sleep beneath it! My misery indeed was 
great during an excessively cold winter — my feet 
were frozen. But what are these sufferings when 
compared with the wretched situation of those who 
live in the deceitful world ! I endure all with more 
pleasure than when a downy bed received me in my 
days of prosperity. One terror I experience here 
that reminds me of the world — the wild beasts — 
often have the wolves howled around my dwelling — 
often have the bears approached so near that I 
was almost tempted to escape into the valley, but I 



THE RECLUSE. 325 

recollected that I should meet with human beings 
not less savage, and I remained. I trembled and 
wept in the world, and I feared and wept in my 
retreat — the wild beast of the forest cannot harm 
me more than man has, and why should I again 
mix with human beings." 

I requested her to inform me if I could be of 
service to her — she replied that she only wished 
to hear from her father, and under a promise of 
secrecy she disclosed her name, at the same time 
telling me that her retreat was not known to her 
former friends, and she was fearful of being dis- 
covered. But her anxiety to hear from her parent 
overcame her repugnance to being known. The 
schoolmaster now informed her of the purport of 
the intended visit of the next morning, and she 
observed that he knew as much of her history as 
was proper to be known from herself, but that she 
was fully prepared for any necessary inquiries. 

The sun was sinking in the west, and after wish- 
ing a compassionate farewell to the Eecluse, we 
descended the mountain, and as the shades of night 
closed in, we regained the village. 

I feel so much interested in the story of the 
unfortunate solitary, that if I can prevail on the 



;>26 THE RECLUSE. 

schoolmaster, with tlie permission of the persons 
interested, to give me the details, I will certainly 
make it public, and perhaps some good effect may 
result to the unhappy Recluse of the ^^lountain. 



THE END. 



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